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TWO

DAYNA

I have a headache. It’s probably because I’m grinding my teeth into chalk, but I can’t loosen my jaw. Maybe I can slip into another dimension, just for one minute until she stops talking.

But I’m not that lucky.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” That snapped statement rips a suffering sigh from my lungs.

“It’s hard to ignore you when you’re standing in my kitchen at six a.m.”

I reach for my coffee on the counter. Caffeine will help.

Maybe if it was laced with arsenic.

“Well, you didn’t leave me much choice, darling.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. It’s the perfect shade of brown, dyed to hide the grey. Heaven forbid anyone knows the great Evelyn Harrington is ageing. “You’ve been dodging my calls all week.”

For good reason. Getting emotionally flayed open by my mother is never high on my to-do list. I don’t enjoy bleeding out on my own kitchen floor while she tears me to pieces for sport.

“I’ve been busy.” I hate the apology in my voice. I don’t owe her that, but years of ingrained people pleasing is hard to bury.

“Doing what? That sad little office job you insist on doing isn’t work, Dayna.”

I grip my mug until my fingers ache. Don’t stoop to her level. Not today.

But I can’t hold my tongue.

“I’m sorry it doesn’t meet your high expectations.”

Her gaze slides around my flat, her nose wrinkling like she’s stepped in shit.

My spine snaps straight. It’s not a palace, but I’ve made it cosy, warm. The bed is behind a screen that leaves the rest of the space open, and I’ve added throw pillows to the second-hand sofa to soften the harsh, dark material—and to hide the frayed cushions.

I don’t have a television, but a wall filled with books that I’ve collected since I was a kid. Stories I disappeared in for hours. My mother never understood that either.

Harringtons don’t daydream. They shimmer like diamonds to catch a husband, and then they sell themselves into a life of servitude as a wife. I never wanted to be the trophy on some arrogant prick’s arm.

“It’s… beneath us, Dayna.” She means both my job and my flat.

I scoff. I can’t help it. “So is living off Grandad’s charity, Mum, but you seem to manage.”

Her chin lifts, eyes blazing for a moment.

“Better that than living like… this. Tell me, Dayna, how long do you plan on playing this game? Independence loses its charm when you’re living in one room, eating out of tins, and selling your soul to some middle-manager.

A marriage would solve all your problems, darling, and I can help with that. ”

Don’t take the bait…

But it’s hard when she’s throwing knives at my chest.

She’s deluded if she thinks that name alone will secure status. The people in her circle marry up, not down.

But my mother has never let go of who she was before.

She would never live somewhere like this. Her snobbery wouldn’t allow it.

My flat isn’t perfect. The wallpaper’s peeling off, there’s damp behind the wardrobe, and the plaster is flaking in places, but it’s mine. I hate how she makes me feel pathetic for standing on my own two feet in the only place I’ve ever felt I can be myself.

I slide the mug onto the counter, glancing at the clock. My patience is hanging by a thread, and I need to get ready for work.

“I’m not marrying one of your little polo friends.

Besides, it’s not like the Harrington name means anything anymore.

” Not since we lost everything. “You say I’m living a fantasy?

You’re the one acting like you’re still living in that fucking mansion, drinking Champagne at dinner, with the drivers and the staff.

But all of that is gone, Mother. It’s been gone for a decade.

You look down your nose at how I live? But this is what I can afford.

I’m poor, but so are you. And the Harrington name isn’t worth shit. ”

Her smile doesn’t falter, not at first.

Then I watch the mask slip into something ugly.

The slap comes fast. It’s not wild or uncontrolled. It’s precise and deliberate.

My head snaps to the side. The force smashes my teeth against the inside of my cheek, pain spreading through my face.

My breath comes fast yet shallow, like my lungs are wrapped in wire. I should have expected it. Cross any line, except that one. The Harrington name is all my mother has left.

“Don’t you dare speak about this family like that.” Her perfume fills my nose as she forces herself into my space, but it doesn’t hide the rotten core beneath.

“You can play make believe with this drab little existence you’re creating, but you don’t drag the Harrington name through the mud.

I have sacrificed everything for you, and I’ll let you have your little rebellion, girl, but you will marry someone worthy of our status and you will give up this…

” She waves a hand around. “… distraction to be a good wife.”

My fingers tremble, pressed to my throbbing cheek, but my eyes are fire as I turn to her. “If you want to marry for money then go ahead, but I’m not your fucking doll, and I’m not a child. You don’t get to decide my life.”

Her sigh is frustrated. “How long do you think you’ll survive like this, Dayna?

Living off scraps, pretending to be one of them?

You’re stations ahead of the people you surround yourself with, and they know it too.

” She smooths down her dress, a nervous tick she’s had for years.

“There’s a dinner next Saturday. The Blackwoods and Ashcombs will be attending.

I expect you to be there, dressed appropriately.

” Her gaze slides over my hair. “I’ll send Marianna to sort your hair.

I can’t have you turning up looking like a ghoul. ”

I don’t move, even though my fingers itch to hide my head from her.

“What possessed you to dye it that dark? You don’t have the complexion for it.”

She leans in and I flinch, but she just presses a kiss to my forehead, like I’m a child.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe until she pulls back.

“Saturday, darling. Don’t forget.”

I say nothing, even though I have zero intention of going anywhere.

I hear the door open and close behind her, then that familiar ache in the pit of my stomach opens.

I survived my mother—barely—but she may as well have cut my chest open.

I get through my workday like I’m sinking in wet cement.

I paint on my smile, don’t let a single hint of my inner pain show.

I’m Dayna Harrington, the funny girl who’ll spread her legs for anyone with a pulse.

The party girl. The irresponsible one. I don’t let anyone glimpse beneath that veil, not even for a moment. I can’t.

I cover the mark my mother left on my face with makeup and pull on my clothes like armour.

Masking, hiding like this, is exhausting and by the time I get home all I want to do is crawl into bed with snacks and a book. Also, alcohol.

When I get into the foyer of my building, I grab my post from the mailbox, flicking through the envelopes, holding my breath there’s nothing scary there. Junk mail and reminders to pay bills I can’t afford until I get paid next week mock me.

Maybe my mother was right.

What am I doing?

Surviving, Dayna. You’re surviving.

Barely.

I shove down her voice, taunting my doubts and fears, and head into the bathroom. I have thirty minutes to get ready, and I make the most of every second.

I don’t wash my hair—there isn’t time—but I run my straightening irons through it until it’s sleek and controlled again.

I’m dead on my feet, but as I walk to Temptation, I brush off the shit of today because tonight is a party and I won’t turn up dragging my baggage behind me.

Ivy. My girl. My best fucking friend in the whole world and the bravest fucking person I’ve ever met is celebrating her engagement tonight. I’ve never been more proud of someone in my entire life.

She clawed her way out of hell to rebuild her life after her shitty ex tried to shatter her, and tonight is the first step in her fairytale.

I like Riot.

He’s a good guy, if a little intense. And by that, I mean completely fucking unhinged in how he takes care of Ivy.

She can barely lift a finger without him breathing down her neck, and I’ve never seen her so happy.

You want that too…

You want someone to see you.

You want to be worthy of that kind of love.

But I’m not. I’ll never be.

I snuff out that voice in my head, force my smile as I walk through the main doors.

Until Maylie’s birthday party, I’d never set foot in a strip bar. This is the second time in as many weeks, though tonight feels different.

Music throbs through the room, people already swaying to the beat, drinks flowing freely.

I don’t recognise half the people—Riot’s friends, I guess. Ivy doesn’t have a big circle, not after the shit with her ex.

I scan for familiar faces, spotting Maylie’s stripper friends sitting with her on the far side of the room.

She looks like a fertility goddess with her belly round and swollen beneath her dress. Maylie wears pregnancy well, even though she looked half-dead in the early part of it.

I search for Ivy and Katie, spotting the cliques and little groups collecting around the room while I linger on the sideline.

Alone. Wrong.

I don’t fit this world, but I don’t work in my mother’s either.

I don’t know who Dayna Harrington is.

I know the costumes I wear, the masks—the shit I hide behind a too-big personality and too many drinks. But I’m floating through life, unsure, aching for something more.

Tonight is not the time for your existential crisis, Dayna. Your best friend needs you to be normal.

So, I do what I always do. I bury my feelings, my pain, like I don’t have a single fucking thing to worry about, and I become her.

The Dayna they all expect.

In the sea of people, I spot Riot. He’s standing at the bar with Mace, both in those leather vests they wear, and two guys I don’t recognise. I follow the direction his gaze keeps darting in and see Ivy sitting at a table with Katie.