Chapter 5
PEYTON
The honeymoon suite is so quiet I hear the blood pounding in my ears.
A vast living area opens up on the right.
Everything is cream and gold and plush. The bed linens and pillows are a stark white that hurts the eyes.
It makes my tattered gown seem even dirtier by comparison.
I’m a wild-haired creature, haunting a space designed for joy.
And while I’m not exactly happy, at least I’m not as miserable as I was twenty minutes ago. The room is warm, clean, and free of judgmental stares.
Baby steps. Now I only need to get out of this dress and take a long bath.
I reach behind my back, fumbling for the hidden zipper. My fingers find it easily enough. I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger and tug.
Nothing happens.
I pull harder, but the zipper doesn’t budge. I twist my arm at an angle that sends a sharp protest through my shoulder and yank again.
“Come on, you bastard,” I mutter.
I contort my body, grunting, bending forward, then backward to find a position with a better grip where my wrist can twist with enough force to unstick whatever has gotten stuck. The delicate lace strains against my movements. I want it to rip, but it doesn’t budge.
I kick out in frustration, but the mountain of tulle wraps around my legs, tripping me. I stumble, catching myself on nothing, and collapse onto the ridiculously thick carpet.
I roll on my back in a heap of soiled silk and lie as a bridal starfish on a sea of plush beige carpet until a knock at the door jolts me back to the present.
My first thought is it’s him. The obnoxious rider has come to take the room away. He’ll throw me out into the cold.
But then a muffled voice calls out, “Concierge.”
I struggle to my feet, fighting with my skirts, and get the door.
Adam is standing in the hallway, holding a large silver tray with my shoes perched next to a phone charger, its cord neatly coiled.
I take the things and thank him. He asks me if I need anything else, and, after ordering the greasiest burger they have on the menu and a mountain of fries—deferred so I can soak in the tub first—I tell him, “Another small thing.”
Adam braces himself, shoulders tensing under his uniform jacket.
“I know I have tested the limits of your professional patience tonight. But please take a deep breath and do me one last favor.”
Adam swallows, his expression brave. “What is it you need, ma’am?”
“You have to unzip my dress.”
His face cycles through several expressions in rapid succession—surprise, alarm quickly derailing into existential dread—before settling on denial. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, ma’am.”
“Adam,” I plead. “If you don’t want me to suffocate in this thing and get rolled out of here in an ambulance, please help me.”
His jaw works before he gives a curt, decisive nod. He sets the silver tray on the console table by the door and steps into the room.
I turn around, presenting my back, my shoulders rigid with awkwardness. Tentative fingers brush against my skin. They’re surprisingly warm. He grasps the tiny tab, and with a smooth, decisive pull, the zipper slides down my spine.
The release is instantaneous and glorious.
Air rushes into my lungs, a deep, soul-shaking breath that feels like the first one I’ve taken since morning. The pressure on my ribs vanishes. Relief floods my body, making me dizzy.
“Oh, thank you,” I breathe, sagging against the doorframe. “Thank you so much. I thought I was going to die in that thing.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He’s already backing away, grabbing his tray. Adam flees the room without a backward glance.
I close the door, lean against it, and just breathe unrestrained for a minute.
When I have enough oxygen in my lungs, I shimmy out of the dress, kicking it in a corner, and find an outlet by the bed to plug in my phone. I don’t wait for it to power up. I’m still not ready to deal with the mess of my messages.
My underwear goes next. I fling it on top of the mound of tulle, shedding a layer of someone else’s expectations with each discarded piece of clothing.
Naked and free, I move into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub, turning the hot water faucet. While the tub fills, I remove my makeup with the supplies I find in the complimentary vanity kit.
The mirror fogs over with steam, but I don’t bother to wipe it.
I’m okay not seeing my face now. I keep scrubbing my face until the cotton pads come out clean.
It takes forever to free my hair from its complicated updo.
By the time I finish, the counter has turned into a cemetery of bobby pins and roses, and the tub is full.
I sink into the scalding water with a groan of unadulterated bliss.
The heat seeps into my sore muscles, soothing the angry blisters on my feet.
I submerge my head, washing the last of the hairspray and regret from my curls.
I stay in that tub until my skin is pink and wrinkled.
Just as the water starts to cool, another knock announces room service.
“I’m coming,” I yell.
I wrap myself in the thickest, fluffiest white robe, the fabric soft and luxurious against my clean body, and for the first time tonight, I feel human again.
When I answer the door, a server wheels in a cart bearing a speckless silver dome.
I thank her and carry the plate to the round dining table in the living area.
Rain streaks down the floor-to-ceiling windows in silvery rivulets.
Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the churning, black surface of the lake for half a heartbeat before plunging it back into darkness. I eat mechanically, my mind blank.
My phone buzzes with a call on the nightstand as I’m halfway through the burger.
The Do Not Disturb must have reset when it powered back on.
I want to ignore it, but if it’s my parents, I need to let them know I’m okay other than with a text message.
I set the plate aside, wipe my greasy fingers on a cloth napkin, and drag myself to the bed, picking up the phone.
I almost drop it when I see the incoming call is from Matt.
A cold knot forms in my stomach, undoing all the good work of the hot bath and the burger. My thumb hovers over the red decline button. I don’t want to hear his voice. I don’t want his anger, his questions, his toxic performance of wounded pride.
But he deserves an explanation. Leaving a man at the altar is a shitty thing to do, no matter how much of a douche he is.
I take a breath and press accept, ready to apologize.
“Hey.”
“Peyton.” His voice is eerily calm.
“Matt, I—I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry?” He lets out a sharp chuckle devoid of any humor. “Oh, you will be. You have no idea how sorry you’re going to be.” The viciousness in his voice scares me. “You embarrassed me. Humiliated my family and me in front of the entire city. Do you know what that means?”
I play his game because if I don’t, he’ll only get angrier. “No, I don’t.”
“I’m going to ruin you.” He sounds cheerful now. “You can kiss your job goodbye.”
“What? They can’t fire me because you said so. I don’t work for your family.”
“No, but your company will want to stay on our good side. They’ll call it ‘corporate restructuring.’ A general layoff. It’ll be clean, don’t worry. And don’t bother looking for another job, by the way. You’re blacklisted. I’ll make sure you never work in Springfield again.”
The room starts to spin. These are not empty threats.
He has the power to make good on every word.
His family made their fortune in the 1800s with steel, and now they’ve evolved, building one of the largest debt collection agencies in the country.
I sink onto the side of the bed, my legs too weak to hold me.
“And then,” he continues, dragging each word as if he’s savoring them, “I’m going to sue you and your family for every penny you have.
The wedding costs. Emotional distress. Breach of contract.
My lawyers will bleed you and your parents dry.
They’ll be selling that pretty little house they just finished paying off just to cover the legal fees.
I almost feel sorry for your dad; it’s going to be extra painful for him to live with no money. ”
I do not doubt that he means every threat.
This is the real him. The cruel man he only let me glimpse before the wedding, and who I fled from.
And he can do whatever he wants. The VanCamps aren’t just a wealthy family; they have generations of power woven into the fabric of our city.
His father’s favorite mantra is, “If you want to own someone, own their debts.” They are untouchable.
“Sleep tight, darling,” Matt snickers, “wherever the fuck you are. I won’t be seeing you again, but you’ll hear from my lawyers soon.”
He hangs up.
The phone slips from my numb fingers and lands onto the mattress next to me.
I curl into a tight ball and begin to shake.
My parents don’t deserve this. And they can’t afford a legal battle.
They need every spare penny to pay for my dad’s treatments.
He has rheumatoid arthritis, and while his insurance covers most medications, he still needs to pay out of pocket for things like hyaluronic acid injections that make the pain manageable.
Matt knows this. And he doesn’t care. Worse, he’s using it against us.
Can he even drag my parents into this? I have no clue, and without a job, I don’t know if I can afford a lawyer to tell me.
He’s choking me. He’s been pulling the noose tighter around my neck for months.
Since the engagement, it’s been a slow narrowing of exits.
First, I gave up my apartment because his house was bigger, in a better neighborhood.
It made sense to move in with him. Then I drifted off with most of my friends, absorbed into his circles, until only Emma remained—and I had to fight for that.
My weekends had to be restructured around his family’s obligations.
The version of myself that existed before him, my habits, my tastes, even my clothes, was gradually replaced by what he preferred, what reflected well on him.
Last night, I finally understood that every concession had been a test of how much I’d surrender, and the wedding was just the final one.
I couldn’t tell him I wanted out. He would’ve found a way to talk me out of it.
Gaslight me, make me feel like it was in my head.
Given other reasonable explanations or apologies.
I could only run. Escaping from that church, I’d hoped to be finally free, but now I feel more trapped than ever.