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Scarlett

T he dress I’m wearing clings to me, the fabric far too fucking flimsy to be anything close to covering.

What feels like a million sets of eyes linger over my body and if it wasn’t for the meds pumping through my veins, my stomach would be churning with disgust.

I’ve been here before.

I’ve stood in this exact position, shown off like a piece of meat - only I’m not supposed to have those memories, am I?

They dolled me up, bathed me, drugged me again and got me all ready for this, my final sendoff. My final soiree. Of course, my dear husband stood there watching the entire thing, he wasn’t going to take any risks this time.

God, he really is stupid, isn’t he? I turn my eyes back on him, on my handsome, eligible, deadly husband. I wouldn’t have tried to escape then, I wouldn’t have run, because I needed to be here . In this moment.

“My beautiful wife.” Alexander says, steering me down the steps and into the centre of the room.

Despite the sedative, my heart thumps so loudly in my chest that I swear I can hear it above the music.

This is meant to be a birthday celebration. My birthday.

My eyes dart about, to the balloons, the flowers, the great show put on supposedly just for me. Only, this isn’t for me.

Something stirs beneath my skin, and it feels like a monster crawling up my spine, using every vertebrae like a rung on a ladder.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to meet all those pairs of eyes, those leering expressions. However this night ends, whatever goes down, I know I will endure more abuse before it is done.

My mind flickers to Rafe, to what they did to him, what he did to him. I know he’s back in the cellar, that they tossed him in like a sack of shit. I can’t even say goodbye. I can’t even have that.

My tears well up and it takes everything I have to fight the emotions swirling in my head. I need to master myself, to remain calm, because this is not over yet. It is not over.

My heels click-clack with every step and my ankles almost buckle from the stupid height of them. I wonder if Alexander did that on purpose, if he deliberately dressed me in a manner that would not only show me off to the max, but would also incapacitate me, make me as defenceless as possible.

Far above my head, a great Tiffany skylight glimmers.

It’s antique, one of a kind, and it’s absolutely priceless.

I glance at it, seeing the abstract swirl of colours as if they’re moving now, spinning before my very eyes.

A piece like this should be in a museum, should be somewhere the world can admire it.

But that’s not the Forster way. No, they like to covet things, they like to hide things away, like to act like they’re entitled to the whole damn world and everything in it.

A shadow falls on my face, and I blink rapidly as I realise that I’m really not paying attention.

That Irene is right in front of me, and I was completely unaware of it.

Christ, if I want to survive this, I need to fight.

And not just physically, not just with my fists.

I need to fight these sedatives; I need to fight these damned drugs.

“Happy Birthday, Scarlett,” Irene says with a big simpering smile on her face.

She grabs my shoulders, leaning in to plant a lipstick covered kiss on my cheek.

I bite my tongue as I try not to react, not to pull my head back and slam it into her smug, self-satisfied face.

Oh, she thinks she’s won. They both do. I can practically taste the waves of victory coming off them both.

Her hands dig into my skin as she holds me tight, as if she wants to deepen this loving moment between us, and she leans in close enough to whisper into my ear.

“You’ll look so much more beautiful after my son slits your throat.

I can’t wait to witness it, to see how all your blood gurgles and sprays.

Maybe he’ll even fuck you then, use you one last time for prosperity’s sake while you’re gasping your last pathetic breaths. ”

My eyes widen. I jerk back, but Alexander squeezes my hand so tightly that I swear some of the smaller bones snap.

Irene straightens herself, meeting my gaze. “You’d probably still get off on that, wouldn’t you? You’d probably still enjoy it, you whore.”

Alexander lets out a chuckle before he steers me away. Not that I could reply, not that I’d be able to. My head is too fuzzy. My words are a jumble of syllables in my head, and they make no sense.

I feel disoriented, delirious, out of control.

My hands cling to my husband as if he’s my saviour, as if he’s Jesus Christ himself and I’m the biggest sinner on earth.

I guess in a way I am. I have sinned, I’ve committed awful transgressions. I’m guilty of adultery, even if my marriage isn’t legitimate. I’m guilty of pride too. Vanity.

And wrath.

Wrath is a sin. Anger, rage, all those emotions are sins I’ve committed so many times I’ve become the living manifestation of them.

But I don’t deserve the kind of deliverance he is offering.

Afterall, he is not a god. He is not pure himself.

I don’t deserve to die here today, and I certainly don’t deserve whatever twisted things he intends to inflict on me.

As he leads me into the very centre of the room, the panic that’s been slowly simmering in my belly explodes.

My eyes land on the two men waiting for me. My father’s business associates, his partners, along with Vincent. Only, that was a lifetime ago. Two decades ago.

But this is also the very reason that I’m here. The point to all of this. Why it had to be like this, why I had to put myself through all this suffering.

In a way it’s hard not to laugh, not to rub my hands together with glee. Because on a certain level, all of this is going exactly to plan.

“Sydney, Fraser,” Alexander says in greeting, and they both grin back like this is judgement day, like they’re about to be given the keys to heaven. As if I’d let it end that way.

I’ve already endured hours of Sydney’s leering. Hours of witnessing him abuse Rafe, forced to watch while Alexander inflicts his own torture upon my flesh.

But Fraser is late to the party. I wonder what new horrors he will decide to unleash.

He’s taller than his friend, ganglier, his neck is hunched over just a little and his beady eyes go straight to me, they linger on me, hungrily laying claim to parts of me he has no right to look at.

Behind them stand their bodyguards. I know both of them arrived with more personal protection than an actual king.

And we all know why that is, don’t we? The three of them have not been in the same room together in years.

Technically, it was Vincent and not Alexander who was in partnership with them and my father, but then, Rafe put paid to that, didn’t he?

I wonder how they reacted, how they received the news that Vincent was gone. Did they mourn him? Did they feel his loss? Did it make them hesitate for a second, make them question whether coming here today was worth the risk?

But then, we all know it was worth it. Two hundred million is worth a great deal.

And besides, it wasn’t just the money on the table.

No, my death doesn’t just grant that. It gives them back their reputation, it saves them from ruin because their businesses, their houses, cars, all of it is a pretence.

There’s nothing behind it. They’re mortgaged up to their eyeballs. They’re swimming in debt.

And my death, my inheritance, it’ll clear all of that. It’ll spare them all the humiliation.

They’ll be able to continue on, to act like they weren’t on the very brink of destruction. All while I lay cold in my grave.

At least, that’s their great plan, isn’t it?

“My beautiful wife has just turned twenty-five.” Alexander continues, putting emphasis on my age. “So how about we give her a birthday she’ll never forget?”

A laugh echoes around me. It twists, it grows as the men all grin from ear to ear.

“Christ, she looks just like her.” Fraser says, still staring at me. “The spitting image of her.”

I know he’s talking about my mother, I know that’s who he sees when he looks at me.

And I also know what he did to her, what all of them did when my father found out what they were up to.

I try to step away, to run, but not before Alexander drags me back and grabs me by my throat, moving quicker than I can even fathom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks. “You’re meant to be the star of the show.”

Star of the show. Belle of the ball. The sacrificial lamb to their greedy little altar, that’s what I am.

He pushes me forward and my ankles give way beneath me, causing me to crash down, landing in a heap with all my weight sending a punishing blow to my knees.

I cry out, but even that sound is off. Has he stolen my voice too?

Has he taken that on top of every other indignity he’s inflicted on me?

No, I know I still have that. I know it’s just the drugs fucking with my headspace, making me think things that aren’t real, making me believe things that aren’t happening.

I force myself to straighten, to glare back, to fight whatever the fuck it is that’s pumping through my veins.

If I am to die here, if this does go wrong, then I will die the way I have lived. I will die with fortitude and with bravery. I will die looking my cursed husband in the eyes, proving even now that I am better than him, better than his family, his bloodline, all of it.

“What the fuck are you grinning at?” Alexander asks before backhanding me.

I didn’t realise I was smiling; I didn’t realise my face had shown any expression.

The blow splits my lip and blood spurts out, covering my tongue, but I know it won’t be all that is spilt tonight.

As I meet his gaze again, I can see it; his confusion. So he’s nervous too. Under that cocky, arrogant facade, he’s as on edge as I am.