Chapter 1 BETH
BETH
My body was currency; something I offered in exchange for warmth, for attention…for anything as long as it resembled love.
PRESENT DAY, SCOTLAND
Mother said to not get too comfortable with boys. Because boys became men, and men were monsters.
But Mother wasn’t always right.
She once said, as long as the back door was locked, no felon could invade our home. But the worn-out wood gave way too easily when the neighbourhood burglar, Jasper Welsh, grew a sudden interest in the plasma TV Mother got because the old Sony Trinitron kept coughing up pixilated images.
She also said the world was safer in daylight, yet had her purse ripped from her shoulder by a biker on a bright Tuesday afternoon, last summer.
She was wrong more often than she liked to admit. Because not all men were monsters. At least Rowan McRae wasn’t.
I was a like a fabric worn too thin, threadbare from too much pulling, and unravelling at the barest of touch.
My body was currency, something I offered in exchange for warmth, for attention…for anything as long as it resembled love.
But, despite this truth, Rowan McRae embraced me, made me believe there was a universe where I was special, worth having…loving, perhaps.
I didn’t know if he loved me, though. But he protected me. And protection had always felt close enough to love for me.
Where other boys recoiled, Rowan had pulled me closer.
“The sex was good and all, but I don’t really like you like that, Beth.”
“You’re pretty, Beth. But let’s be honest, you’re…weird.”
“Get over it, Beth. It was just sex. I’m not that into you.”
These were my truth. Beth Fraser wasn’t really anybody’s type. She was just something to past time, the girl you’d walk up to when you needed a few moment of fuck.
But Rowan McRae came and painted over that pathetic, hideous picture.
In his arms, I was wanted.
In his arms, I was…worthy.
“You’re special, Beth Fraser.”
“You’re brave.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
He told me all these, and more that I couldn’t remember right now. Because, my chest was too tight, my hands too clammy and my thoughts were slipping through.
Anxiety wound itself tight around my ribs. Eyes were on me, pressing into me, everywhere and nowhere at once.
Rowan McRae wanted to stay, you know.
Rowan McRae was not a monster in the slightest.
But I was about to make him one.
“Beth Fraser?” The thick, accented voice rang across the room, settling on my skin like a cold, wet blanket.
“Yes, Principal Rozanov.” I didn’t dare to lift my head, too afraid of his piercing grey eyes that might rip the truth out of my chest.
“Look at me,” he urged, voice softening, but only a fraction.
Reluctantly, I lifted my head, my fingers picking at the loose thread of my arm warmer, my heart racing.
The skin on Principal Rozanov’s forehead was creased due to stress, or irritation, and his lips were in a thin line. He tried to smile, almost did, but it ended up looking like a grimace.
Patrick Rozanov wasn’t a tall man. But he had a very intimidating exterior, a voice that echoed like a gunshot.
I heard he was once a soldier in the Soviet Union before he moved to Scotland with his family.
Soldiers were cold and scary. Now, make that a Russian soldier.
The man could gun anyone down with a simple eye contact.
And currently, I was forced to hold his gaze and tell a few, little lies.
“I want you to know that you’re safe here,” he said, his voice calculated and controlled. “You’re not in trouble.”
But I was. Well, I would be if I didn’t act the script Mother had shoved into my hands at the hallway before I slipped into this room.
“I–” he started, then paused, acknowledging the other members of the committee that were present at the table, with a measured sweep of his eyes.
There was the headteacher, Mrs. Fallon, the president of the disciplinary committee, Mrs. Kerr, and Mr. Coker, the school counsellor.
“–We just want to know what really happened,” he continued.
“Power dynamics can be very confusing at your age. So whatever happened, we have a good feeling it’s not your fault. ”
‘It was my fault,’ I wanted to say. But I simply nodded instead. Because sometimes, nodding was easier than thinking.
“Miss Fraser,” Mrs. Fallon called, her voice clipped but not unkind. “Remember, there’s no wrong answer.”
I adjusted on the wooden chair uncomfortably, my throat seeming to be packed with cotton, my heart hammering in my chest.
“We want to establish the facts surrounding your relationship with Mr. Rowan McRae.” It was Mr. Coker that spoke now, his Nigerian accent managing to slip through, like it always did randomly when he was trying to sound serious and firm. “You’re not in trouble. You’re protected here. Okay?”
Protected.
The word felt heavy, foreign now.
Mrs. Fallon leaned forward, spectacles hanging daintily on her button nose, her arms, lined with wrinkles, folded on the table. “Let’s start simple. How long have you known Mr. Rowan McRae?”
“He was my teacher,” I answered, staring at the scratches on the table, wondering who made it, how nervous the person must have been that day. “My math teacher. For a year.”
“When did the relationship begin?” someone asked. I didn’t know who was who anymore. The world around me was starting to spin out of focus. Too many eyes were on me. Too many people were judging me.
My fingers curled into the hem of my arm warmer tighter, like it had the capacity to keep me afloat.
“I don’t know,” I said.
I knew. It started two months ago.
“It just happened,” I lied.
“Did Mr. McRae initiate contact outside of school hours?”
There was a pause. Mother’s words pressed into my skull. A warning bell ringing in my head. If I messed up. If I failed to-
“-Yes,” I heard myself say.
“How?”
“A message,” I stated confidently, even though the story felt so strange in my head. Yes, Mother was right sometimes. She had predicted the questions, made me rehearse until I memorised the answers.
“About what?”
“About school,” I answered, my chest tightening. “At first. And then…other things.”
“What kind of things?”
Encouragement. Comfort. Warmth. Words that made me feel less broken.
“He asked how I was,” I said instead. “If I was safe.”
I heard pen scratch against paper as someone scribbled things down–my confession, I assumed.
“Did he ever comment on your appearance?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“That I was special,” I said. “That I was different. Pretty…sexy.”
Rowan had never used that word. Sexy.
I could feel the tension in the room coiling tight, gazes sharpening.
“Did he ever ask you to keep the relationship secret?”
My mouth opened and closed.
“Yes.”
This one was slightly true.
“Did he tell you why?”
Mother sat right outside the door, waiting for me to be the actress she trained me to be just five minutes ago. If I failed, she had a thousand ways she could kill me and yet, I would still be breathing. I could almost feel her icy gaze digging into my skull, daring me to go off script.
“He said people wouldn’t understand,” I whispered, the words heavy on my tongue. “He said they would twist it.”
“Did he ever tell you he loved you?”
No. Not yet. And I wasn’t hoping to hear it either.
I didn’t have the luxury to be greedy. I didn’t care if he loved me.
He wanted me, that was all that mattered.
Besides, Mother already said men would never love a girl like me.
That there was a darkness inside me. No sane man would love a girl who was broken and possessed.
So I didn’t believe in being loved. I just wanted to be wanted…even if it was just for a moment.
“Yes.” Something cracked in my chest.
Somewhere on the table, the recorder I hadn’t paid much attention to hummed.
“Beth,” someone called my name, direct, in a way that demanded my attention. So I lifted my gaze again, hoping my lies hadn’t slipped through my confidence, wishing my guilt was buried so deep in a chamber of my heart that had never once kissed the light.
“I need to ask you something very important,” Mr. Coker said. “And I need you to answer honestly.”
I nodded, my heart hammering. Honestly?
I didn’t come here with honesty. I came to play a script.
“Did Mr. McRae ever touch you in a way that made you uncomfortable?”
The room narrowed.
I thought of his hands that were always warm and gentle. The way they held me like I was something fragile, something to be protected.
“Yes,” I said, my nails digging into the fresh, jagged line across my wrist, the cut I had made this morning, feeling the zap of pain shooting up my arm.
“Can you describe when that first happened?”
My finger dug deeper until I felt the draw of blood, warm and thick. “In his classroom. After school.”
“Did you consent?”
Consent.
The word landed wrong, like a blade turned sideways.
“I didn’t say no.” I gave a light shrug.
“That’s not the same thing, Beth,” Mr. Coker said softly. “Did you want it?”
I thought of guilt, of debt. I thought of owing Rowan McRae something I could never repay.
“No,” I whispered. “I didn’t consent.”
I consented. I kissed him first. I was the one that popped open his buttons. When he asked if I was sure, I said yes. Then he asked again, and I said yes…firmly.
“Did he stop when you showed hesitation?”
“No.”
He showed hesitation. I went all in.
The burn on my wrist intensified, blood coating my nails and sliding over my skin, soaking into my arm warmer. I deserved this pain. I deserved to feel pain. I deserved nothing but…pain.
“Did he ever suggest that refusing him would have consequences?”
I hesitated. Mother’s words rang in my ears again. I must not go off script. I must not say the wrong things. I must not disappoint her again.
“He said,” I murmured, hiding the grimace in my voice at the fire licking at my skin. “that I would ruin him if anyone found out.”