14. Maddison
Maddison
My entire body groans in pain as I stretch out in my bed. My slow, protesting body is sore and stiff.
Daylight pours through my window, my eyes squinting against the harshness of the sunlight. When reality hits me, my head swivels, searching for Ash, but of course he isn’t here.
My heart deflates, and I curse myself for even letting it.
This is not the kind of guy you let your heart get attached to.
Not even close. After last night, I should be running for the hills, screaming.
Yet, my aching muscles bring back memories that causes a small smile to creep over my lips and butterflies fluttering low in my stomach.
And the endless restlessness and hollowness that I usually have to spend my days trying to chase away is out of reach. The need to chase reckless behaviours to feel has dissipated after a night of pure sin and chaos.
My mind reels, trying to muster up the feelings of regret and shame; embarrassment for what I did.
But the feelings don’t come. Instead, feelings of giddy excitement bubble inside me.
A sense of power lingers, even though last night I let go of all control.
I’ve never felt more in control and sure of myself the way I did then.
Sure, nervousness and fear still sit deep within me, because I’m not totally stupid.
I know the men I was with last night are dangerous. I know they have the ability to ruin my entire life. And I know I told myself last night was the first and final time I’d willingly walk into that club, but even thinking that thought brings a spike of disappointment with it.
Reaching for my phone, I squint my eyes to check the time.
“Fuck!” I gasp, jumping out of bed in a panic. I can’t remember the last time I slept in till ten thirty in the morning.
Wincing, I stride to the bathroom. I need to shower and dress and be downstairs in less than half an hour.
It’s my family’s monthly lunch, where I sit in the mansion I was raised in and eat a meal in the awkward atmosphere.
So much fun.
Pausing in front of the mirror, my mouth parts when I see myself. My hair is wild, falling down my shoulders in messy locks. Bruises smatter my skin, finger indentations on my hips and over my breasts. My cheeks have more colour than they have in forever and I look... alive.
Smiling at myself, I run my fingers over the marks on my body, the ghost of pain still lingering.
The dark marks stand out from my pale skin, little reminders of the sins I committed last night.
Of the men who took from me and gave back even more.
I shiver at the thought of it, before pulling myself to the present and pulling myself back together.
By the time I’m stepping out of the town car my father sent for me, I’ve shoved last night me firmly back in a box, making sure it’s locked tight.
Today, I’m back to the usual Maddison. The passive, professional, and calm Maddison.
My usual polite smile feels foreign, as if I haven’t used it in months, but I keep it in check, glued to my face.
My long sleeve shirt hides any evidence of my indiscretions, heels clicking as I make my way up the twenty-four stone steps that lead into the towering building that I used to call home.
Though it never quite felt like it, with its echoing rooms, marble floors and silent tension.
The only moments I felt truly happy here, were when my nanny came and let me spend half an hour in the gardens, or when my tutor brought over some crayons after I begged and begged, bored out of my mind from the maths and English.
My father found them a week later and fired her and hired a man with white hair and a permanent scowl etched into his face. I can’t even remember her name.
I drift through the ostentatious space on autopilot, following a path etched into muscle memory.
Down the east wing. Past the sitting room that my mother often sits in to drink wine and stare at the walls.
Along a hall that has an abstract oil painting that always made the hairs on my neck stand up, so much red and maroon, almost resembling dismembered body parts.
At least that’s what my childhood nightmares labelled it as.
The house smells the same as it always has. Polish and something faintly metallic. It smells too clean after my night spent in a club that smells like cigarettes and sex.
The dining room is just ahead. I can almost see it before I slow down, my steps faltering as I near my father’s office, voices sounding from inside.
It’s not uncommon for him to work on weekends, but bringing clients here is usually saved for the long-term business partners.
Yet, I can’t place a name to the second voice I hear.
I don’t mean to listen, but my father’s voice carries, low and controlled, lacking the warmth he sometimes adds to his voice to be more personable.
“... timing is critical,” he’s saying. “I won’t have loose ends.”
The unfamiliar voice is smooth and calm, yet something about it has me taking a step closer to hear his reply. “Of course. We’re aligned on that.”
There’s the faint clink of a glass. Ice, maybe.
“I trust your discretion,” my father continues. “This stays contained."
There is a pause. “Always does.”
Something about it makes my skin prickle. The words are harmless enough, but my chest tightens anyway.
Footsteps sound, but the door opens before I can step away. I gasp softly, caught mid-breath.
The man who steps out is definitely someone that I don’t recognise; tall, broad shoulders, wrapped in an immaculate grey suit that fits him all too well.
His presence fills the hallway as he closes the office door behind him, his eyes lingering on me.
Sun-kissed skin contrasts sharply against his suit; dark hair shaved close to his scalp.
He is shockingly handsome, in a harsh way. Sharply cut features, his short dark hair that exposes a strong jaw covered in closely shaved stubble. His lips are pillowy, like those of a woman’s, yet it suits him.
His brown eyes sweep over me in a single, unhurried glance, far too assessing for a stranger. His smile is easy and charming, yet it never reaches those intense, dark eyes.
“Well,” he says lightly, extending a hand as if we’re meeting at the office, instead of outside my father’s private office. “You must be Maddison.”
Plastering my smile back on my face and swallowing down the shame of being caught listening to their meeting, I reach my hand out to his.
His grip is firm, his hand warm and solid as it envelopes mine. He doesn’t rush to let go, and I’m suddenly aware of how small my hand feels in his. It’s ridiculous, but my pulse stutters anyway.
“Yes,” I manage. “Maddison Dally.”
“Zeke.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the office behind him, then back to me. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I want to scoff, because my father wouldn’t have mentioned me unless it was to do with business, but I don’t. “I’m sure,” I say, forcing my voice to fill with politeness.
My eyes dart down, and I see the shadow of a tattoo peeking out of the arm of his jacket, and my brows draw together. Noone who does business with my father has tattoos like… him.
He releases my hand slowly, deliberately, before stepping past me. As he goes, he dips his head just enough to feel a little too intimate. Like we’ve already met in some other context I can’t remember.
“Lovely to finally put a face to the name,” he adds.
Then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall.
I stand there longer than I should, my heart thudding, skin buzzing like I’ve brushed against something live, turning my head to watch the stranger, Zeke, saunter out of the house like he owns it.
I jump as my father steps out of the office, forcing my attention off the man whose presence feels too big for the space.
“You’re here,” he states, giving me a once-over before stepping past me on his way to the dining room.
My fingernails dig into my palms as I follow him, the momentary ease I felt earlier slipping away every second I spend here. Muscles slowly growing more and more tense as I hold myself upright.
Mother sits at the dining room table already, looking off into the distance with a blank look on her face.
An empty wine glass sits next to her, stained with her lipstick, a bottle sitting next to it, ready for her next glass.
Never mind that it’s still morning, always seeking an escape, even if it’s just mentally.
She barely reacts when we enter, only lifting her eyes long enough to acknowledge our presence before they drift back to nowhere in particular. She looks beautiful, the way she always does, perfectly styled hair, soft makeup, expensive silk draped over a body that seems permanently tired.
Weirdly, she looks the same as she did when I was ten. And twelve. And fifteen.
“Darling,” she murmurs, reaching to fill up her glass. “You’re late. I have an evening with the girls that I must get ready for soon.”
“I apologise, Mother,” I say, sliding into my seat. My voice sounds smaller here, like it always does.
She hums and takes a sip. My father sits at the head of the table, unfolding his napkin, just as one of his staff appears silently to pour water before retreating like a ghost.
No one asks how I am. Not that I’d be able to answer honestly, after the twenty-four hours I’ve had. Hell, after the week I’ve had.
The cutlery clinks. The room fills with the sound of plates being set down. Everything is immaculate, in a way that is all too familiar. I stare down at my plate as familiar tension coils in my stomach.
As a child, I used to sit right here in this seat.
Imagining what it’d be like to eat a greasy pizza with my hands, or a burger that dripped sauce and cheese.
With noise around me, laughter, conversation, or even yelling.
At that age, I wasn’t picky; all I wanted was a sign of life.
People laughing with their mouths full and talking over one another. A joke. A fight. Anything.