Chapter fifteen
The Chase Family Home, Kensington
Twenty years earlier…
Connor
White powder everywhere. Mountains of it scattered across the work surfaces and bar stools in our kitchen.
Violet is standing on the other side of the island, mixing an unknown substance in a bowl.
Her dark curls, still unbrushed since this morning, are unruly around her shoulders.
My little sister looks up and smiles when she hears my footsteps.
Almost thirteen now, she’s growing up fast but still has a childlike demeanor.
Her wide brown eyes dance as she continues to stir whatever she is making.
“Does Mum know you’re in here?” I ask. The closer to the mayhem I get, the more apparent the destruction is.
“No, I’m making surprise pancakes. Want one?” I shake my head as my gaze runs over the array of pots, pans, and glasses lying out amongst the food debris. A pack of chocolate chips lies scattered within the mounds of flour. The dark buttons have smashed against the granite worksurface.
“Does anyone know you’re in here?”
“You do,” she says brightly, and my heart sinks. Our father runs our home with an iron fist, and he doesn’t enjoy cute family moments or surprises. The older I become, the more I’ve discovered the man he is: a dangerous one with little control over his temper.
“That’s not what I meant. Where’s Mum?” She shrugs indifferently and starts to spoon some of the mixture onto a tray covered with silver foil.
I watch as she lifts what looks like a ladle, sweeping it over the counter before lobbing the gloopy mess onto the tray.
Liquid drizzles onto the granite and starts to mix with the flour, creating a mulch.
“Should you not move the tray closer to the bowl?”
“I’ll tidy it up once I’m done. Do you think Dad will like them?” she says sweetly, her eyes firmly set on her task. When I don’t reply she glances up, hopeful, then her face falls as she takes in my expression.
“The Martins are due to arrive any minute, Violet. You were meant to be dressed and ready to greet them.”
Her eyes run over me taking in my freshly pressed white shirt and black slacks.
“Oh…” she mumbles, then drops the bowl she’s holding onto the counter.
The ladle bounces off the top then disappears behind the unit.
More beige mixture flies into the air and lands all over the kitchen floor.
Violet squeaks, stepping backward fast. “Shit!”
“Violet Chase!” our father’s voice roars from the hallway.
I hear brusk footsteps, then he appears in the kitchen.
“That language is not appropriate, and will not be tolerated in this house.”
A big man, he fills the doorway as he stands surveying the scene confronting him in his modern, sleek kitchen.
His chestnut eyes lock onto Violet, who’s clutching the countertop.
She widens similar ones to him as he glares at her.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she begins. The words tumble out rapidly. “I was trying…”
“Yes, Violet. You are very trying,” he says, eerily quiet as he steps forward in her direction. Already dressed in his suit, he looks the epitome of the successful businessman, which he is. “What is all this?” he asks, waving a hand at the mess.
“Pancakes,” she whispers.
“Speak up!” With every foot closer he gets to his daughter, the more she withers beneath his stare. She steps backward as he rounds the kitchen island to put them on the same side as each other.
“I was trying to make pancakes for us all,” she repeats, a fraction louder with a clear note of terror in her words.
“And did you have permission to make pancakes?”
His question is rhetorical; I know he knows she didn’t.
I also know the best thing to do at this point of a conversation with my father is to stay quiet and shake your head, but Violet always has something to say, and today that will most likely land her in hot water.
“No, but…”
“But nothing,” he roars. “You took items and ingredients from my kitchen, paid for by me, and did not ask permission. That makes you no better than a common thief.”
“No,” she shrieks as he lunges and grabs her arm. “I was trying—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you were trying to do. You’re my daughter, living under my roof. Until that fact changes, you will not take anything that I consider mine without permission.”
Violet starts to cry, tears seeping from her eyes as sobs catch in her throat.
“Save your tears, Violet. Today, you will learn about punishment and how it is dispensed.”
“Sir,” I shout, wanting to divert the attention from her to me. “I understand you feel—”
“Stop talking now, boy,” he growls. “Or you’ll end up receiving the same punishment that your sister is about to experience.”
He lets go of Violet's arm, and her hand snaps to the pale flesh marked red where he seized her.
His hands move to his belt, and he begins to unfasten the buckle.
Violet wails, and a violent hand strikes her hard across the face.
She falls to the floor, then my father returns to removing his belt.
“The Martins,” I say into the tense abyss. “They’ll be here soon. Surely her punishment can wait.” My father turns to face me, wrapping his belt around one hand then slapping his palm with the loose strap.
“Do you think I will allow the appearance of some wannabe friends to stop justice when it needs to be served?” He raises his eyebrows, and I shake my head. Just then, a staff member, one of his guards, appears in the doorway.
“Sir, your guests are here. Mrs. Chase is waiting for you in the library.”
“Send them away,” my father snaps. “I’m no longer feeling sociable.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replies, expressionless, before disappearing back from where he came.
The first blow comes down unexpectedly; Violet's shriek alerts me to what is happening.
I dash around the counter, putting myself between my sister and the belt.
It catches my back as I turn away in an attempt to lessen the blow.
The leather comes down again, harder than the last.
The pain sears across my skin as my little sister cowers below me.
“Move,” my father roars. “You will both receive twenty lashes, no exceptions, for disrespecting my home and my rules.”
He stands above us, glaring down. I look up at the man meant to keep us safe, and my heart breaks again as it has a thousand times before.
His lack of regard for us as his children is soul-destroying.
He takes the rule of being seen and not heard to the next level.
Rough hands grab me, pulling me to my feet. Strong fingers bite into my flesh through the material of my shirt. He lifts me, my feet parting from the ground momentarily before he spins me to face the counter.
“Hands there,” he snarls, tapping the granite with his belt.
“You too, Violet.” My sister scrambles up beside me and mimics my pose.
Her fingers visibly shake, and I place a hand over hers.
“My children are exactly that. Mine. You will act as I tell you to, speak when you’re spoken to, and only partake in other activities when you have my express permission.”
“I was only trying to make you a surprise,” Violet sobs as she clutches the ledge. “I wanted to make you happy.”
Our father laughs, loud and nasty. “Happy? Violet, you have been incapable of that every year you’ve had on this planet. You’re here because your mother wanted another child. When you turned out to be a girl, I should have thrown you in the Thames.”
I squeeze her fingers in solidarity; when the tyrant who runs our home is furious, only venom passes his lips.
It’s at times like this that I know he hates us.
We’re nothing but property he must maintain.
On some days, he’s kind and considerate, wanting to discuss our futures and hopes.
But every up is met with a faster downward spiral where he knocks us straight back to reality.
I glance over my shoulder as the belt is lifted high into the air.
I turn back and screw my eyes closed, but the blow never comes.
The sound of a chair being knocked across the room causes Violet and I to spin to see the commotion.
Russell has my father by the collar, and he pushes him backward toward the door.
Our father thrashes at him with the strap, and my brother takes the blows to his side as if they don’t connect.
“Never touch my brother and sister, you evil bastard,” Russell roars in the older man’s face. In his late teens and with a keen interest in working out, my brother is strong. He pushes firmly as our father steps backward across the tiles. When they reach the door, they both stop.
“Are you quite finished, Russell?” our father asks, calm and collected. My brother, however, looks fit to burst. Redness emanates over his face and fiercely across the back of his neck.
“No,” he snaps back, leaning in closer. “You’re nothing but a fucking bully. Leave them alone, they’re kids.” He pulls at the shirt in his grasp, shaking the man before him.
“And my boy, are you now a man?” The question is laden with threats. “Are you willing to take punishment like a man for your outburst?” Russell’s eyes flick to us still standing at the counter.
“If you spare them,” he says quietly, “you can take your wrath out on me.”