Chapter Four
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Coral
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They showed me to my room and dumped my bags in the corner.
My room.
The floors are made with rough, even planks and then varnished, and if the aim was to give it character, it achieved that goal. The floors are giving off serial killer vibes.
The furniture looks handmade, some pieces crude and practical, and others... well, never mind.
A wave of homesickness settles into my bones as I sit on the bed, and, oh my god, the thing is so hard my butt hurts. What is this bed made of? Rocks?
I can't believe I have to check, and it's not definitive. There could be a bed-sized boulder inside the mattress, for all I know. Worse, the quilt is so heavy-duty and scratchy, I want to cry.
I miss my penthouse with its stunning views of Manhattan, where everything is glass and marble and each piece of furniture complements the next, and I miss my air con that keeps my apartment cool and leaves it smelling like vanilla and lavender.
Oh my god. I didn't even think about the bathroom. I leap up from the bed and check it out. There's a shower and a toilet. I don't even want to think about the water pressure, which is probably nonexistent anyway. There's not a single jet setting on the ancient showerhead.
There's no vanity with a million-watt light, so I can apply my makeup flawlessly. What's going to happen to my skincare routine? I'm going to look terrible. When I get back to civilization, my friends aren't going to recognize me. I'm going to look rugged.
After seven days in this archaic cabin, I'm going to end up looking like a female lumberjack. Might as well give me the flannel shirt and axe right now.
No. Absolutely fucking not.
I plan to get through the next seven days without breaking a nail, so whatever they have in mind, they can write it on a piece of paper and stick it up their butts.
Chores! My father suggested I do some chores out in nature, like a normal person. "Build character," he said. Does he even know me?
I don't even park my own car. I wake up in thousand-thread Egyptian sheets, with coffee in bed.
My manicures are... well, I won't go into the cost of them.
I bathe in bubble bath that costs more than a month of rent.
My bare feet haven't touched the ground, ever.
They're literal pillows. They're my most prized possession currently.
Does he think I get up looking this way? Chores? The man doesn't know the meaning of the word. I have to do Pilates and spinning class, because how can I eat ice cream and still look like this?
I have to keep up with the latest makeup trends. I have to fly to the most popular fashion shows, plus go on vacation and be a diva. It's hard work.
Well, I'm not doing anything here, that's for sure. I'm just going to sit here in this room for the duration of my imprisonment and then pretend I'm one with nature whenever my father is around. Maybe I'll even hum a little to sell the facade a bit better.
As for the ogres out there, I think they just want to be left alone. So same.
I didn't realize how tired I was—a six-hour drive turned into nine hours because, yes, I got lost; it will do that to me.
I open my nighttime bag and take a pair of silk pajamas.
I test the shower with a grimace on my face, and lo and behold, it trickles, works up some steam, and comes out in a gush, then shies away again.
I can't keep up, and I want to swear. I miss my own shower with its powerful waterfall jet that kneads my shoulders and brings circulation to my scalp. And it sings to me too.
I forgot to bring my soap, and I'm too despondent to step out and get it, so I end up using theirs. It smells like them, and I want to turn my nose up, but instead I triple-cleanse with the very same bar of soap.
I wrap my wet head in a silk cloth and smother my skin in oils and lotion—I'm going to need extra help out here if I plan to return my pampered, moisturized self—then I slip into my comfortable pajamas.
My stomach growls unladylike the instant I step from the shower and the aroma of food hits me. On a desk in the room is a plate filled with steak and potatoes and a bottle of water.
Food.
I hate that it tastes as good as it does, and I'm not even a steak girl. I eat until I'm satiated to the point of sleepiness. I climb into the rock bed, and it takes me forever to find a position where there aren't any rocks poking into my back.
I'm not going to survive this, and I don't care that, from the window, the night sky bursts with stars like a symphony.
I don't sleep well at all.
My body aches, and I think I shifted my bones on the hard mattress. Worse, there isn't any coffee waiting for me on my bedside table, the kind I'd have after brushing my teeth.
Right, I'm not home. I'm in Deathville, Maine, with three lumberjacks, richer than god and yet they prefer to work at the logging site.
I want to cry, but then I find a folded sheet of paper on the bedside table instead of a lovely cup of coffee.
I unfold the thing and shriek as I read.
It's a laundry list of chores.
Oh, hell no.