14. Maddison #2
Once, I remember, I asked my mother about it, tugging on her sleeve while she lay on the chaise in the sunroom, half asleep with a drink sweating beside her.
Take me with you on your next holiday! Can I please go to school and make some friends? Can you tell Father I don’t want to meet his new executive partner?
It fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. Usually followed by a lazy smile and words like, “People would kill to live like this, Maddison,” or “Mother is busy, Maddison. Go find the nanny.”
And I believed her. For a long time, I believed that wanting more meant I was ungrateful. A part of me still does.
Now, sitting here across from her vacant stare as she slowly cuts into her food, I see a mirror. I see who I will become if I continue living the way I am.
My food suddenly tastes like ash, a rock forming in my throat as my eyes burn. If I have to continue enduring the meaningless conversations, the fake smiles, being used and touched and handled, I will be her. Numb and vacant, and resigned.
I used to feel bad for her, but all I can feel in this current moment is resentment. Pure resentment.
Resentment at her for not saving me. For not saving herself. I don’t know much about living with little, but I see people do it every day, and they don’t feel the way I feel sitting in this room right now.
Usually, I can cope with it, block it out of my mind and do what I need to do for a few hours. A part of me thinks it’s Ash’s fault that I’m taking today so personally. He made me feel so much last night that now I don’t think I can push the feelings away so easily.
I force my shoulders back, my spine straight. Feeling his gaze before I see it, I glance at my father, meeting his eyes.
“I have organised a date for you next week at the senator’s event,” he says matter-of - factly.
My mind reels trying to think of who it could possibly be.
Most of the men I’m organised to meet with are married and will attend with their wives.
I can’t think of the last time I attended an event with a rearranged date.
“A new business partner. An important business partner.”
My stomach drops to the ground. New means unknown. It means a different flavour of cruel and sleazy.
“I was actually thinking,” I breathe, the words surprising even me as they leave my mouth. Both of my parents look up.
My father’s expression doesn’t change, but his attention sharpens. My mother pauses mid-bite, eyes flicking between us, before reaching for her wineglass.
“I was thinking about inviting a friend to the event,” I continue, keeping my tone light, though my heart smashes against my rib cage.
My father tilts his head slightly, eyes burning into mine. “A friend,” he repeats, face twisting as if the word is sour on his tongue.
Immediately, I regret opening my mouth. I could have just invited Roxy and put up with my date, and this tension would have been avoided.
My time with Ash is making me foolish.
Finally, his stone-cold eyes return to his meal, and I take a shuddering breath. “You’ll attend with Zeke,” he says dismissively, and my mind reels. “He’s agreed to pick you up so that you can be photographed entering together.”
My knuckles go white as I clutch my fork and knife, slowly cutting into my food even though my appetite is gone.
Zeke.
The man from earlier. It doesn’t matter that he seems different from the Malcolms and the Conrads. It’ll be the same nonsense, just a different font. And my stomach drops at the thought of it.
My eyes flick to my mother, who is eating her meal as if we are talking about weekend plans.
Not her husband giving her daughter away for the night, with no care what happens.
No care for her safety. Her soul. Mum knows what happens when these business partners get dates.
Hell, she was one of them for my father.
Yet, she doesn’t speak up.
Not that I expect her to, but something inside me screams at her to look at me. To see me. To say that this is wrong. But of course... she doesn’t.
“Do you understand, Maddison?” He asks, tone cold and warning.
“Of course, Father,” I reply, smiling as best as I can.
We eat the rest of the meal in silence, the sound of cutlery hitting the fine plates is the only thing distracting me from my fraying mind.
As soon as it’s over, I thank them and disappear down the silent halls.
Every step I get closer to the front door, the more I come undone.
Breath heaving in and out of me as the backs of my eyes burn.
My feet don’t stop until the front doors loom ahead of me, tall and imposing and far too familiar. A cage door that I’ve known for my entire life.
My hands tremble as I reach for the handle, fingers clumsy against the cool gold. I manage to pull it open, the hinge whispering softly behind me as I step outside.
The air whooshes into my lungs. My breath stutters, sharp and uneven, as if my chest can’t quite remember how to work. Pressing a hand to my chest, my nails bite into the fabric of my shirt, trying to hold myself as the first tear spills over.
Then another.
They come fast after that, blurring the manicured grounds into a wash of green and stone. I keep my head bowed, shoulders curling inward, the polite posture I’ve had all afternoon, collapsing in on itself.
What happened at lunch wasn’t even bad, compared to the lunches and business meetings and life I’ve endured. But it feels like the dam that has been holding me together is fraying at the seams, overfilled and weak.
My breath turns ragged, chest heaving as I finally let myself cry. Not quiet tears. Not the elegant kind that I’ve seen women do in movies. These are ugly and desperate and loud enough that I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound.
The town car waits for me at the bottom of the steps, but I can’t will myself to move towards it. The mansion stands behind me, silent and unmoving, exactly how it always does, as I fall apart on its steps.
A familiar sound trickles into my awareness as I remain stuck in the same place. A hum of an engine that has me gasping.
But not in fear.