12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Emma
I scratch at the cuff of my costume and stare in horror at the mess I’ve stumbled into.
Verity instructed me to go into an empty Solexxa room and change into my “uniform” for the night.
I examine myself in a maid’s costume, fitted with long black sleeves and white cuffs.
It’s hemmed way too short. I tug at it as I slip on my stockings and wrestle my feet into a set of black heels, my buzz gradually dissipating into nothing but anxious anticipation.
Luther promised fun, and the night was off to a promising start, but now I’m having doubts.
I follow the instructions, finding my way to the room at the end of the hall, which is the Solexxa dining room.
Thankfully, the party doesn’t appear to have reached what reminds me of a lawyer’s boardroom.
There are no windows, only a floor-to-ceiling fish tank that covers the entire left wall and illuminates the room in a murky green haze.
In the middle of the floor is a long, rectangular dining table lit with candles and covered with appetizers, bread, and butter.
Dacre’s attention is all encompassing as our eyes meet.
He’s at the head of the table. On his left sits Verity with her feet propped up, and on his right, Luther is carrying on the loudest conversation in the room.
I don’t remember the names of the others at the table, but a few faces I recall from my tour and the party.
This is my first culinary club meeting, and I look like an idiot standing at the edge of the room.
Dacre is the only one who notices my presence, at least until I take a step toward the table.
“What do we think?” It takes an effort to push my voice to its usual level of pep.
The room breaks out into whispers and some laughter that grows when Luther starts banging his hand on the table like an animal.
My chest tightens. I let out a breath. This might be the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done, but it’s all in good fun, right?
These people are going to be my friends.
Verity told me everyone who joins the club has to go through initiation.
Well, other than Dacre. So this must be something they do for fun, and I’m nothing if not fun.
I half expect to see a smug, satisfied smirk on Dacre’s face. But nothing budges that unreadable mask as he rubs a hand under his chin.
The green aquarium light twists Luther’s usual smile into something more sinister.
Here, he feels different. My heartbeat is erratic as he motions for me to approach, and I stumble in my heels.
The alcohol is still very much doing the job of keeping me calm, or else I might be freaking out.
The safety and assurance my family smothers me with is a little too far away for my liking.
I was instructed to leave my phone with my clothes, and the Emma who is sobering up second by second is regretting that decision.
I’m alone in a sea of sharks.
“Let’s have a drink,” Dacre says, motioning to a drink cart at the other end of the room. “Bring me that bottle from the shelf and two glasses.”
“Two!? I want one,” Luther says.
“I’m starting off the night. You’ll get your turn to order her around,” Dacre snaps.
Order me around? All night? So the maid costume is definitely for humiliation.
Okay, Emma, don’t panic. I need to appear unbothered.
“Do I really have to do everything you say?” I fetch the cart, and it wobbles along with me.
“Within reason.”
“What’s the point of this?”
“It’s camaraderie. All in good fun. Everyone in this room had to wear this costume . . . None has looked so damn good.” Luther sips his beer, getting drunker by the minute.
“Luther wore it best, I’d say,” Verity says, taking a drink of wine, staining the glass with her dark green lipstick. She looks so different here. In the kitchen, I never see her hair down like it is now, in raven-black waves.
An unnerving feeling trickles down my spine. For some reason, I look at Dacre, as if he cares. As if he’ll save me from this somehow, when this stupid humiliation ritual was probably his idea.
“I’ll show you the gallery of all who came before later.” Luther winks at me.
“There’s a framed picture of Luther’s ass,” Verity says.
“No one said I had to wear underwear with the dress.” Luther chuckles.
“Do a lap.” The sternness in Dacre’s voice startles me.
“A lap?”
“Around the table. Walk a lap.”
His eyes darken as he cocks his head, waiting for me to follow his command. I swallow the lump in my throat and focus on placing one foot in front of the other. Everyone is watching, whispering too low for me to hear.
“Faster!” Luther calls.
Is this what these people do for fun?
When I return, Dacre offers me a glass of some type of pink liquor, and I grind my teeth together to stop myself from saying something stupid. Everyone in the culinary club does this, so I should be able to get through it with no problem.
Dacre wants a reaction out of me, and I won’t give it.
“Drink it all at once,” he says.
I am the one who thought it would be a great idea to get drunk tonight. Maybe it will make the night go by faster. It burns as it goes down, and I check the bottom of the glass. A faint sparkle lingers on the glass.
“Good girl,” he says, turning toward the table, and my back stiffens. “No one else asks her to drink or eat anything. Everything happens in this room under my supervision, no exceptions.”
Verity scoffs. “That’s no fun. I had to sit through thirty minutes of Luther’s mystery food concoctions.”
“I don’t care.” Dacre sits back in his chair and tips his drink back, staring directly at me.
It’s one night, Emma. And once the night is over, I will be officially in the culinary club and on my way to being a five-star chef. After all the long nights of volunteering and soldiering through the days with little sleep, this is cake.
I smile, placing my hands behind my back. “At your service.”
I almost regret Dacre’s no-drink rule because my buzz is gone now that I’ve served them all dinner. I filled their cups, brought out their food, brought them dessert, and cleaned up the table. The grandfather clock in the corner tells me it’s been an hour.
I’m not sure how long I have to do this, but I can’t imagine it’s till sunrise.
Verity and Luther are so drunk that they forget about me sometimes, busy with their long, rambling stories.
I try to be quiet, but technically, anyone in the culinary club is able to ask me to do anything.
So far, I’ve had to hop on one leg for a minute (yes, in heels), file and paint someone’s nails, and then stand on a chair and sing a little song.
All of which is virtually painless, aside from the blisters on the back of my heels.
Dacre hasn’t said a word to me. He just watches, silently eating his food and eyeing my every move. I can’t tell whether it’s unnerving or comforting. Somehow, his attention is better than being invisible.
“Emma!” Verity calls, and I reluctantly take my place next to her.
“I spilled some wine. Do you think you can clean it for me?”
There are a few drops under my feet, bubbling up on the hardwood floor.
“Of course.” I plaster on my best smile.
This will be over soon, I remind myself as I kneel, grabbing a napkin on the table to mop up the mess.
“Do it on all fours.”
I keep eye contact with her. “What?”
“Get on all fours like a dog.”
My cheeks burn as I do as she instructed. I’ve never gotten a good read on her during volunteer shifts. There, she was just a harsh authoritarian. Here—
“Now give us a little bark.”
I hesitate, balancing on my forearms.
She continues. “Go on. Bark like a little dog.”
I didn’t sign up for this. What does this have to do with cooking and being in the club? My heart pounds in my ears.
“Why do you want me to bark?”
“Does it matter? You do what I tell you to do. Now give us a bark.” She rubs my head, and all that confusion bleeds into seething anger.
What is wrong with these people?
“Just do it. It’ll be over quickly,” Dacre’s voice sounds in my head.
I gasp. Dacre’s voice is in my head. I can’t see him, and I don’t dare to peek over the table to look at him.
“Is there a problem?” Verity says.
“Deep breath. Tell her it’s fine.”
“No problem.” I listen to the words. His words.
“Well, let’s hear it.”
“It’s okay.” His inflection is warm, comforting. But the effect it has on me is like fresh water being poured over my head.
He’s not just in my head. Dacre is . . . helping me.
I give a little bark.
“Really go for it,” Dacre adds.
I let out another bark, then another.
“What a good little dog.” Verity pats my head, and I meet her gaze.
There’s nothing but coldness in her stare. She doesn’t care about me, and judging by the hysterical drunken laughter of Luther, he doesn’t either. These people don’t want to be my friends.
I knew they were cutthroat, but this is leaning toward cruelty. I follow up another bark with a howl that causes the whole table to laugh. At least, this time, they’re laughing with me.
“I want to scratch her eyes out,” I try.
“You’re doing well. I mean it. You just have to last until midnight.”
Okay, so he can hear me, too.
“What’s happening right now?” I ask.
“Don’t worry. It’s temporary.”
I’m about to ask why Dacre is talking to me in my freaking head when cold liquid runs down my scalp and onto my back. A pool of red gathers around me on the floor.
Is that blood? Is that my blood?
The smell of wine floods my senses.
Verity snickers while she holds the wine bottle over my head. “Oops.”
The table erupts into laughter again, and my stomach sours. Maybe there’s a first time for everything, and someone pouring wine over my head and laughing in my face is a first for me.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced this level of embarrassment. This is a new low, and I feel it in my throat and my eyes.
“Wow, she’s so obedient.” Verity smirks.