Page 5 of Fractured Loyalties

Five

IVY

I stare down at the book in my lap, the words blurring together as I reread the first two paragraphs of The Great Gatsby for the third or fourth time.

I miss you, Dad. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing away the grief that floods my chest. As much as I hate Roman for all he is, he’s right. No one here seems to care about what I’m going through—or me in general, probably.

I let out a heavy breath. Tonight, the Woods’ sitting room, off the main entrance, is my cage. I’m curled into a burgundy leather armchair that’s stiff and uncomfortable, the only light coming from the small reading lamp overhead.

It’s easier to sit here, though. My dad’s urn is in my room, on the nightstand. For some reason, it bothers me to be in there with it. It feels wrong for him to be in this place. He would hate it, his ashes stuck in the house of the woman who ghosted him.

I’m sorry. But I know he’d understand. It’s not as if I had a choice.

I try to read again, but then my eyes drift to the clock on the wall. It’s past midnight, and I should maybe try to sleep. However, just as I close the book, the front door slams open, sending eerie chimes through the whole freaking house.

I startle, and the book tumbles off my knees, hitting the rug with a dull thump. I freeze, waiting for someone to emerge from the shadows.

Please tell me this place isn’t haunted.

Before I can consider what type of ghosts might be here, Roman fills the doorway. He is unsteady, and he braces himself against the doorframe with both hands.

What the fuck…

His face is a train wreck. Purples and yellows swirl under his eye, while blood vessels appear to have burst around his blue irises. One side of his mouth is split open, and the blood has gone dark and shiny where it’s scabbed over.

I sit still, holding my breath as he staggers toward the wet bar, finds a glass, and half fills it with vodka. The liquid sloshes over his knuckles as he tips it back, and he doesn’t even bother to wipe his mouth when some spills down his chin.

Does he not see me? I continue to observe him, my fingertips digging into my bare thighs. Part of me considers bolting out of the room, but the other… Well…

It’s like a car wreck I can’t look away from.

He finally notices me then, and the shift in the room is so sudden it’s as if someone cut the oxygen. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowed.

“Didn’t know you were nocturnal,” he slurs, not quite meeting my gaze.

I’m still frozen, yet somehow my lips move. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He snorts, which makes him wince, and he clutches his ribs. “Yeah. This place’ll do that to you.” He pours another vodka, drains it, then sets the glass on the counter with a thunk that makes me jump again.

I stare at the blood on his collar, wondering where it’s coming from.“Are you…” I start, then stop, hating myself for even trying. “Are you okay, Roman?”

He grins, showing the red slash in his mouth. “You should see the other guy.” He pulls out a kitchen towel, presses it to his jaw, and hisses.

I press my lips together. “Did you get into a fight?”

Roman rolls his eyes, letting out a muffled chuckle.

“Don’t be dense, Ivy. This isn’t high school.

I don’t get into spats . It’s not over some girl or a parking spot.

” He dabs at the cut again, then flicks the towel aside as if he’s annoyed it isn’t working quickly enough. “Family business. You wouldn’t get it.”

He’s right. I don’t get it. And quite frankly, I don’t want to.

Still, something propels me toward him, and I stand to my feet, leaving the book on the floor. “Let me help you,” I say. “You need to clean that. It could get… infected or something.”

He looks at me, not moving. For a second, I think he might say thank you, or at least let me do it. But then his mouth hardens, and he backs up, his arms crossed over his chest as if he’s bracing himself for a blow.

“I don’t need any help,” he scoffs, “Especially not from you.”

I shrink backward, feeling my insides curl up like a burned piece of paper. I try to pretend it doesn’t hurt, but my cheeks are on fire with embarrassment.

Roman turns his back on me, finds the bottle again, and pours himself another drink. He drinks it more slowly this time, but every muscle in his shoulders is drawn tight.

“Sorry,” I mutter, staring at his backside. I hate how attractive he is. I hate how he came across as somewhat accepting, and then it turned out that he just wanted to torture me, too.

Without saying another word—or even looking at me, Roman stalks out, the glass in hand. My lower lip trembles as I watch him disappear into the darkness. Then, I push away the pathetic feeling in my chest and drop back down into the chair.

The silence in the room is suffocating, filling my ears with static. It’s creepy, and for that reason alone, I decide I’d rather sit with my dad’s ashes than in here any longer. I unpeel myself from the chair, pick up my book from the floor, and head to my room.

The hallway leading there is vast, the kind of grand that makes you feel as if you’re shrinking just by walking through it. The sconces throw flickers of orange and blue across the paneling, and every step I take echoes a little longer than seems possible, as if the house is mocking me.

Halfway to the bedroom wing, the silence of my bare feet is interrupted by the click of heels. They’re deliberate, measured, and too graceful to be anyone but Irena.

Ugh. Why is she awake right now? Is this whole house full of insomniacs? My stomach knots as she comes into view. There’s no way to avoid her. My mother is already gliding down the corridor, her silhouette framed by the glow of a stained-glass window.

She’s flawless, as always. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her cream satin robe. Her makeup is perfect, even at one in the morning.

She stops in front of me, head tilted, and eyes narrowed. “You’re up late.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, repeating the same truth I gave to Roman. I clutch the book at my side and remind myself that I can always hurl it at her face if she attacks me.

She examines me then, her gaze raking over me. My sleep shirt is three sizes too big; it’s one from my dad’s closet. My hair is in a messy bun, and I know what she sees…

It shows in the disgust on her face.

“So,” she hums, “How was your first day at Woods?”

I swallow hard, my mind remembering all the shitty parts. “It was fine,” I mumble, staring at my feet. “Got a dress code violation. Spilled milk on my skirt.” I force a laugh, but it comes out strangled.

Irena’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of amusement. “You’re supposed to wear the uniform properly, Ivy. Otherwise, it reflects badly on the family.” She folds her arms across her chest, as if somehow her failing to get me a proper uniform before school is my fault.

I just say, “I’ll fix it. Edward told me my new uniform will be here in the morning before school.”

She leans in, her perfume a chemical sweetness that fills my head. “Hmm, good. You know, people are watching your every move, Ivy. You need to make sure you’re not a disgrace to this family.”

I nod, shifting from foot to foot, my hands twisting the hem of my shirt. I try to think of something else to say, anything that might make her look at me with even a sliver of warmth.

I take a deep breath and take the risk. “It was just really different from my old school. People here are… I don’t know. Intense .”

She laughs, her voice sharp. “That’s the point, darling. The world is intense. This is just a preview.” She steps back, smoothing the belt on her robe. Her eyes flicker past me, and I swear I hear the sound of feminine laughter coming from somewhere.

“Just be a good girl,” Irena says, her voice terse. Her gaze meets mine, and for a brief moment, I think I see something undeniably sad there—but it leaves as fast as it came. “Obey the rules.”

I purse my lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

“If you want to make things easier for yourself, Ivy, you have to learn how to play the game. No one likes a victim.” She inspects her nails, then gives me a final glance. “You can’t rely on sympathy, here. This place will eat you alive.”

I feel my face burn from embarrassment, but also… What is going to eat me alive? The house?

Irena starts to walk away, then pauses, turning back toward me. “Just do us all a favor and make sure you are presentable.” The word hangs in the air, more a threat than a suggestion.

“Okay,” I say, but she’s already gone, her heels tapping away like a metronome. I’d love to scream after her, to shout that she’s the one who set me up for failure today. She’s the one who provided me with the wrong size uniform. She’s the one who did this.

But I’m pretty sure she already knows that.

I hug my arms around my waist and hurry down the corridor, past the oil paintings and the mirrors that reflect and multiply my shame. When I reach my room, I shut the door behind me gently. Despite that, the click is still so loud it sends a chill down my spine.

I glance around, choosing not to flip on the switch. It’s cold and dark inside my room. The window is cracked, and the wind rattles the glass like fingers on a coffin lid. I cross to the bed, collapse on top of the designer comforter, and curl myself into a ball, my knees pulled to my chest.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. It’s dead. Like the insides of all the people I live with.

I hate this place. I hate this place.

I lie there for a while, just staring at the wall, tracing the hairline cracks in the plaster with my eyes. I remember when my dad used to tuck me in, and how he would whisper dumb jokes until I couldn’t stop laughing. I’d hear the TV playing from the living room as I fell asleep.

But here? Here, there’s only the sound of my own breathing and the echo of Irena’s voice telling me I could have had everything. Which is a lie. She didn’t fucking want me. She never offered to take me.

She made me stay away.

I wrap my arms around myself more tightly, squeezing until my ribs hurt. I want to cry, but the tears are stuck somewhere behind my eyes, blocked by pride or spite or just plain exhaustion.

However, as I close my eyes and try to find sleep, my lids are filled with the image of a battered Roman. I focus on that distraction, wondering what the hell happened to him, during family business.

And I wonder if it could happen to me, too.