1 Scarlett #3
“Girl, I know having to schmooze with these people all night sucks, but look on the bright side.” Harper grins wickedly before taking another sip of champagne. “Your dad is way too busy showing off to pay attention to us, which means we can drink unlimited expensive champagne all night.”
I laugh softly despite myself.
“Maybe later we can bribe Barry into driving us down to one of the clubs in Crestwood and dance our asses off until sunrise.”
“Yeah, because Barry would totally drive me somewhere Dad or Clara didn’t personally approve,” I say dryly. “Honestly, I’d probably have a better chance stealing one of the cars from the garage.”
Harper’s eyes light up instantly.
“Well then, let’s do it.” She sits up straighter, clearly thrilled with her own idea.
“Now the real question is which one we take. The Aston Martin? The Escalade? Hmm… no.”
A mischievous smile spreads across her face.
“We should absolutely steal Celeste’s Porsche 911. That would really piss in her Wheaties.”
I burst out laughing as Harper throws her head back dramatically and nearly slides off the chair.
“Oh my God, seriously, how much have you had to drink already?” I grab her arm before she topples completely onto the patio. “You are officially cut off. You can barely sit upright, let alone drive a car.”
“I could totally drive,” she argues while laughing.
“That sentence alone proves you absolutely cannot.” I says as we continue to eat and drink champagne.
The night passes quicker than I expect, probably because I’m starting to feel the effects of far too much champagne.
Before I know it, the massive birthday cake is wheeled out beneath the glowing patio lights while everyone gathers around to sing “Happy Birthday.”
My father wraps an arm around my shoulders while Clara and Celeste stand beside us, smiling like we belong on the cover of some perfect family magazine.
We pose for pictures afterward, flash after flash blinding me as I force smile after smile onto my face.
I try not to gag from the sheer fakeness of it all.
The second the photographers finally disappear, I make my escape back to Harper.
“To three more months before we start our new chapter,” she says, raising her champagne flute toward mine.
I laugh softly before clinking my glass against hers.
“To freedom.”
We finish off the last of the champagne, which in hindsight was probably a terrible idea.
By the end of the night, Harper can barely stand upright.
I have Barry, our driver and security for the night, help me get her upstairs to the guest bedroom beside mine.
He gently lays her down while I place a bucket beside the bed along with a glass of water and pain reliever for the inevitable hangover she’s going to have in the morning.
“Thank you, Barry,” I whisper.
He nods politely before leaving us alone. Once Harper is settled, I stumble back into my own room and start getting ready for bed. I don’t feel great myself. Everything feels heavy and slightly off-balance, the room tilting every time I move too fast. My thoughts are hazy, my limbs sluggish.
Maybe we really shouldn’t have had that much champagne.
I peel off the Dior dress and change into a pair of soft cotton shorts and a camisole before climbing into bed. The cool sheets feel amazing against my overheated skin. Within minutes, exhaustion pulls me under. I wake to cold air brushing against my face and the sound of laughter echoing around me.
For a second, nothing makes sense. I’m moving.
My stomach twists violently as nausea crashes through me.
This isn’t my bed. I’m not even inside the house.
Panic surges through me as I realize someone is carrying me across the backyard.
My vision blurs in and out while I try to understand what’s happening.
I attempt to scream, but no sound comes out.
Something is taped over my mouth. Terror explodes inside me.
Fight or flight kicks in instantly.
I start thrashing wildly, kicking, hitting, scratching at whoever is holding me until they finally lose their grip and drop me hard onto the ground.
I scramble to get up, desperate to run, but my legs feel weak and unstable beneath me.
A figure leans over me, and before I can react, a sharp slap cracks across my face.
Pain explodes through my jaw.
“You stupid bitch,” the guy snarls. “You’re gonna regret that.”
He grabs me again before I can fight back and hoists me over his shoulder. I’m carried toward the guest house. The lights inside are painfully bright, making me wince as tears sting my eyes from both the impact of the slap and the sudden brightness.
“Oh, there she is,” Celeste says with a cruel laugh. “The perfect little princess. The birthday girl.”
My stomach drops.
“Well, boys,” she continues mockingly, “what do you think we should do with Scarlett? Don’t you think she deserves a proper birthday party? One she’ll never forget.”
She grips my chin roughly, forcing me to look at her. The guy carrying me throws me down onto a couch while another immediately crowds into my space, his hands roaming over my body.
Panic consumes me.
Oh God.
No.
No, no, no.
This can’t be happening.
I try to shove them away, to fight, to scream through the tape covering my mouth, but everything feels slow and weak. One of the guys grabs my legs while another leans down far too close, and nausea churns violently in my stomach. I kick out desperately, earning a harsh grip against my jaw.
“Stop fighting,” one of them snaps coldly. “Or this gets a whole lot worse.” He says as he grabs me by the face removes the tape and takes my lips in a hard kiss and bites me. I can taste the blood running down my lip.
“The more you fight the worse this will be princess.” The guy at the bottom of the couch says.
Celeste stands off to the side with her phone raised, recording the entire thing like this is some kind of sick game.
I’m going to fucking kill her. I just have to figure out how to get the hell out of here first.
The guy near my legs slowly drags his hands up my thighs toward the waistband of my shorts before roughly pulling them down and tossing them aside.
Panic claws violently through my chest as his tongue makes its way up my legs and his fingers press between my legs, nausea rolling through me so hard I swear I’m about to vomit.
Above me, the other guy grabs my camisole and tears it down the middle.
Fabric rips as he yanks my bra down painfully hard before biting into my skin.
A scream tears from my throat. The sharp crack of his hand slamming across my face follows seconds later, sending my head snapping sideways.
Pain explodes through me.
Between the fear, the nausea, and the alcohol still swimming through my system, my stomach finally gives out. I throw up all over him.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” he shouts, immediately stumbling backward in disgust as he tries to wipe the vomit off himself. The other guy recoils too. And that tiny moment of chaos becomes my chance.
Before they can react, I launch myself off the couch and run.