7. DIANA
DIANA
How could I resist?
After he fucked me again, my mask securely in place, I slept next to him, nestled in his arms, breathing in his scent and feeling his heartbeat against my cheek.
I never do that. Ever.
When I woke, I turned and fucked him again. Face-to-face. Orgasm-to-orgasm. Nose-to-nose and breath-to-breath. Slow. Leisurely. Feeling his length slide in and out.
As one night stands go, it was the best. The most debauched and the most transcendent I’ve ever had. He was fantastic. A record-breaker in every way. More than I could have wished for. And now, walking home, I ache, exactly as I wanted to.
It’s a shame, almost, that we’ll never see one another again, because that kind of sex…
it’s worth repeating. Maybe he’ll come back to the club.
Maybe I’ll meet him there again. Maybe I’ll get on a transatlantic flight ten years from now and turn to the man in the seat beside me, and it’ll be him. Maybe—
I halt before my apartment block, where a large white removal van with the words Pickton Auctions on the side is parked on the pavement. The back is open, and uniformed men in pale blue Airtexes are lifting a sofa inside it.
My sofa.
My stomach free-falls. I glance at the entrance to the building, where two more men are carrying my coffee table.
Holy fucking shit.
I run towards them, arms out, handbag dangling from one hand. “What are you doing? That’s my stuff. Stop!”
One of the men glances at me as they shuffle their way towards the open van. “House clearance.”
Panic roars through me, tingling in my joints. I turn from side to side, scanning the area like it will give me answers.
When I catch sight of the odious red Ferrari parked on a yellow line, I get my fucking answer: Dad.
Shit. This flat is a prime piece of London real estate, nestled down a side street in St James’. It’s been my home for nearly three years, but Dad owns it.
Of course, he’s not going to let me stay.
I try to stay focused. “You can’t take this stuff. It’s mine.”
“Sorry, Miss,” the man says. “Orders are to take the lot. Anything that’s not broken.”
I stagger. “Broken?”
He tips his chin towards the upper floors of the building. “It’s a mess up there.”
My mind splinters, a cacophony of panicked thoughts and fragmented memories exploding in my head. Screams. Smashes. Crashes. Me and Sylvie hiding under the stairs.
I race through the lobby, ignoring the screeches of the concierge telling me that I’m not allowed in the building anymore. My heels clack on the stairs. Can’t wait for a lift. Not now.
My heart is hammering, and a hot, panic-ridden sweat breaks out all over my body. I skid out onto the second floor.
The door to my flat is flung wide, and I catch my breath on the threshold, clinging to the door frame as I take in the destruction.
Lamps are broken, the rug stained with god knows what. The drinks cabinet is empty, broken glass shimmering over the floor. The side table is upside down, one leg broken. All my special edition books have been torn from the shelves, ripped pages scatter the floor.
My knees threaten to fold and I white-knuckle the doorframe, holding myself up. “Oh, my God,” I whimper.
Dropping my handbag to the floor, I creep inside, glass crunching underfoot. All the silver-framed family photographs on the shelves by the fireplace have been swept to the floor. I close my eyes, imagining Dad bursting in here and finding me gone, uncontrolled rage whipping through him.
“Where the fuck have you been?” His rough voice has my heart lurching, and I freeze when he steps from the kitchen into the living area.
He casts a disdainful look up and down my body.
“You look like a whore. Stepped right out of one of your books.” He plucks one of the remaining books off the shelf—a blue hardback, embossed with gold lettering—a signed special edition of Taming the Beast by Abigail Enwright, and one of my prized possessions.
He wrenches the book open and starts tearing out pages, dropping them to the floor like autumn leaves. “I should have put a stop to this vile habit,” he says, ripping another page out.
“No!” I yell, but Dad only throws me another look of disgust and bends the spine fully back, tearing the book in half with a strength that makes me shudder. He throws both halves to the floor.
He takes a huge step towards me, bellowing in my face, “You ruined everything, you selfish little bitch.” His spit spatters my cheeks, and he raises his hand like he means to strike me.
He’s never hit me before, but I’ve never made him this angry.
On instinct, I cower, blood humming in my ears as I brace for impact, hands over my head.
But the impact doesn’t come.
Dad takes one of my raised wrists in an iron grip, squeezing so hard I have to bite back a yelp. He yanks me upright, forcing me to face him.
“What were you thinking?” His growl grates up my spine, and his eyes blaze with untamed rage. “You fucked it all up. The deal. The hotel. The land. You cost me millions. Millions. You stupid little bitch. Did you think there was something better out there for you than the man I chose?”
I try to pull free, but his grip only tightens. “You’re hurting me,” I say, my voice pitifully weak.
Behind us, out in the corridor, I can hear the noise of the removal men approaching, but Dad doesn’t seem to give a fuck. He tugs me so close to him that my wrist presses against his stomach, and when he speaks his voice is a low rumble that only I could make out.
“You should have married Seb Hawkston like you were supposed to. Opened your legs for him.” He clenches his other hand around my bare upper arm and shakes me. “At least that way I’d have got my fucking money.”
My throat swells, tears stinging my eyes. I always knew Dad was selling me, more or less, but to hear it explained so plainly hurts. I grit my teeth, refusing to break in front of him.
“He didn’t love me,” I say, my voice like stone. “I won’t marry someone who doesn’t love me.”
He lets out a harsh chuckle. “Your books teach you that too? Don’t be a fool, Diana. Love doesn’t exist. It’s a delusion. Don’t make your decisions for love.” He shakes me. “Money exists. Money is real. Make your decisions for that.”
“So I can grow up to be a cold, heartless bastard like you?”
Dad’s nostrils flare, his free hand pulling back again.
I’ve broken him. At the ripe old age of twenty-one, I’ve pushed my father over the edge. He’s finally going to hit me.
I screw my eyes shut and wait.
“Mr Marchetti,” comes the voice of one of the removal men from directly behind me. “What do you want us to take next?”
Dad growls at the interruption, and with one final squeeze of my wrist, he releases me and directs himself to the removal men. “The bed. You can burn the fucking sheets too.”
A flicker on the man’s face is the only acknowledgement that Dad has said anything unusual.
“Call me when you’re finished,” Dad says, straightening his lapels and puffing his chest. “And you…” His mouth distorts as he looks at me. “Get the fuck off my property.”
He strides past me and out into the corridor.
I press a hand to my chest, steadying my breath. “Where am I supposed to go?” I call out to him.
He spins back to face me, all reddened cheeks and tremoring jowls. “I chose a life for you, and you didn’t want it.”
“Of course I didn’t want it. He didn’t love m—”
“Go and search for love, if that’s what you want. But you won’t use a penny more of my money to find it. I’ve housed you, clothed you, fed you… all of it for twenty-fucking-years, and I got nothing in return. Nothing.”
“Twenty-one. I’m twenty-one,” I say, voice nearly breaking.
He stares, and there’s not a hint of remorse in his gaze.
“A bad investment. That’s all you’ve been to me.
It’s all you’ll ever be, and I’m cutting my losses.
You’re on your own. I don’t care where you go.
” He marches back towards me until we’re almost chest to chest. “You think you can do better on your own? Go and fucking try.”
I blink back tears. “I will.” It sounds pathetic, the words distorted by the lump in my throat. I cough and begin again. “I will. I won’t just try. I’ll fucking do it. I’ll show you.”
He steps back with a low, mocking chuckle.
“Go on, then. You’ve always been telling me what a great business woman you could be.
How you could make an independent living and don’t need any man.
Let’s see it in action.” He lets out another loud, rumbling laugh and points a gnarled finger at me.
“I’ll be watching. And when you fail, when you lose the way I’ve lost, I’ll relish it.
I will delight in your failure the way you’ve delighted in mine. ”
“You… I…” I cup a hand over my mouth to stave off the sobs that want to break free. When I’m sure they won’t, I let it fall. “Fuck you.”
He snorts like a vengeful dragon and turns away.
For a few seconds, I do nothing but stare at his receding form, his suit jacket flapping as his firm steps thump against the carpeted hall.
My father, ladies and gentlemen.
I fucking hate him.