Page 4 of Gilded

MALIA

T he sun starts to slide toward the horizon before Soren allows me to come inside.

I pass through the living room of my suite, grab my robe, and wrap my nearly naked body, then get a cold bottle of water. While I’m there, I grab an ice pack for my face.

I lean my forehead against the refrigerator door and press the ice to my right cheek until it numbs, then move it to the left.

I’ve had plenty of dark periods in my life, but those were born out of loneliness, isolation, and the lack of love. I never imagined abuse could trump them all, raising me several notches on the desperation scale.

“How the fuck is this my life?” The tremble of the words and the weakness of my voice crack the facade I’ve been using for weeks now. I keep telling myself I’m not weak. I’m not stupid. But my reality denies those claims. As does the pain in my face.

I wander toward the window and peer through the blinds.

The mystery man is older than me, but much younger than Soren.

I can’t help but wonder where he came from, why he’s here, and what part he plays in this sick business.

His sudden appearance flips the switch on my nerves, making me feel the way I did when I saw the attorneys in my father’s office.

Very few people come through any of my father’s homes. Only the most trusted. Which also means they’re the most vital.

Mystery Man stands, takes off his jacket, and tosses it on a deck chair, exposing the vest of his suit and white shirt sleeves. The movement drags my gaze to his hands, which are covered in tattoos and rings.

Then, he slides his hands into his pants pockets and wanders toward the pool edge, looking around the grounds while Soren continues to talk. And talk. And talk.

I crack the door and put my ear to the opening, only to hear what I expect—Soren going on and on about Soren. Dropping names and price tags and generally parading his intensely overblown ego, but none of what he’s saying gives me any more idea of what may be going on behind the scenes.

Mystery man is a big guy, six-three or -four, trim but muscular, with wide shoulders and buffed arms that tug against the fabric of his shirt.

He’s got jet-black hair that seems to fight his attempt at a clean, gelled style.

I didn’t get much of a chance to look at him, but he’s far more attractive than anyone I’ve seen come through the house before.

Most of the men associated with my father’s business are rough.

Their clothing simple, their looks sun-worn, their expressions grim.

At first, I thought he might be a replacement for Yari, but despite the tattoos, he’s far too sophisticated.

He has too much swagger. And he’s not kowtowing to Soren, which is probably why the asshole is bragging so hard.

But it’s clear this man is just as sociopathic as everyone here, given he didn’t even blink when Soren hit me.

I watch him, pulling in the nonverbal cues he’s sending, something I learned from my time at the galas.

I’ve been eavesdropping my entire life, but nothing tells me more about a person or a situation than body language, facial expressions, voice inflection, and even the tone of laughter.

It all hints at the story going on under a person’s skin.

This man is intense. I swear I can feel the force of his power vibrating inside me.

He’s also cold, right down to the bone. I’m a self-diagnosed empath, and it’s moments like this that reinforce that idea.

I was never wrong about what I felt coming from my father all my life, I just didn’t want to accept it.

I pass the mirror in my living room on the way to my studio and pause.

The cut my father made, one that was almost healed, has broken open again.

I’ve got bruises on both sides of my face, and the black stitches in my skin make me look like the bride of Frankenstein.

Appropriate, I guess, considering I will soon be just that.

I keep hoping Soren will be disgusted by me and call off the wedding.

He certainly disgusts me enough to consider drastic alternatives to becoming his wife.

In my studio, I let my gaze roll over the eight-foot-tall saw-scaled viper I’ve built entirely of Legos. It’s ninety-nine percent finished, but I always add details right up to the day of the gala, when it will be auctioned for charity.

I pick up a vintage block in fire-engine red and turn it over in my fingers, tracing the hard edges and perfect corners to ease my anxiety. They’ve become my talisman, these Legos. And this snake is truly a spark of hope for my future.

I take Tylenol for the pain in my face and take a nice, long shower, stretching out my neck and shoulders. I’ve learned that getting hit causes pain in all kinds of places that weren’t directly injured. I’m going to be sore tonight.

Then I sit on the shower floor and let the hot water fill the space with steam while it flows over me, while my fingers dig into the Lego’s corners.

My dreams of freedom take me away to a new name, in a new town, somewhere thousands of miles away from the ocean.

A little apartment of my own, a boring, regular job, maybe even some friends?—

“Malia.”

Evelyn’s rasp cuts through the sound of the shower and straight into my fantasy.

“Dinner at seven,” she says. “Look your best.”

I exhale and close my eyes in dread. “That would be easier if men stopped hitting me.”

“Then stop giving them reasons.”

A streak of hatred courses through me. I pound the water controls off, wrap a towel around myself, and open the shower door.

She’s refolding already perfectly folded towels, and I meet her gaze in the mirror.

Her eyes are ice blue. Her hair black and gray.

Her face creased with age. The emotions that flow from her are always the same: envy, anger, and impatience.

“You are a coldhearted bitch. Have I ever told you that?” It’s a rhetorical question. I know I’ve never said one mean thing to her. But that’s all changed. My life is completely different, and I’m still trying to figure out how to adjust to it.

Shock hits her face. “Your mother would be?—”

“My mother would be proud of me for taking care of myself when no one else does.”

I didn’t know my mother, and I’ve been told almost nothing about her. But in my fantasies, she’s amazing. Kind, smart, funny, and she loves me unconditionally.

Evelyn leaves in a huff, and I stare at my face in the mirror, caught somewhere between utter despair and rabid fury. But fury requires energy, so despair wins out, and silent tears slide down my cheeks, stinging when they hit my newly reopened wound. Salty as they touch my lips.

Dressing and doing my hair and makeup for dinner is a painful process, and by the time I’m finished, I’m exhausted. I miss Yari. So much. I miss having someone in my corner. Someone I can talk to.

But I deserve whatever I get. This is karma, and I’ve got a huge debt to repay. I just need to keep Soren happy until I can find a way out.

I’m wearing the extremely slutty dress he bought for me, the sparkly hair clip he likes, and I even tap on the perfume he demanded I wear, a scent that makes me nauseous. But he couldn’t care less what I want, think, or feel. There is literally nothing redeemable about that man. Nothing.

I press my elbows to my dressing table and rest my head in my hands, praying Soren has a heart attack and dies, right along with my father.

My suite door opens. “They’re at the table,” Evelyn barks with extra force, making me flinch. “You’re being rude. Come now.”

When she’s gone, I stand, smooth my very short skirt, and tug on the spaghetti straps. Before I head out, I down an entire glass of red wine along with more Tylenol.

As soon as I open my door, the scent of something rich and spicy reaches me. I’m hungry, but my stomach has been revolting for weeks.

Walking down the hall toward the dining room feels more like a plank in the middle of the ocean.

Every time I face Soren, I’m anxious over what will come out of his mouth.

What he’ll want. What he’ll take. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to force sex on me already.

Despite my hopes of this being a marriage of convenience, I fear it’s just a matter of time.

When I enter the dining room, Mystery Man is sitting opposite Soren, and my feet stop. Evelyn’s words instantly replay in my head— they’re at the table.

All my nerves rise to the surface again.

Soren looks toward me, and when Mystery Man follows his gaze and sees me, he stands. It’s a move I’ve often seen at charity galas, and one of those sights that makes my heart ache for kindness in my life.

He’s taken off his sunglasses, and his eyes complete a very compelling package. He’s far more attractive than I first thought. But there’s ice beneath that surface.

“If you’re late again,” Soren says, voice heavy and dark, expression murderous, “you’ll be sorry. Don’t ever make me wait. Do you understand?”

I pause beside a chair at the end of the table. “Of course. I should probably let you two talk?—”

“Sit down.” To Mystery Man, Soren says, “You sit too. Don’t spoil her. She’s already hell to live with.”

I keep Mystery Man in my peripheral vision despite the desire to look at him. Read him. Uncoil the mysteries over his presence, something no one will explain. When I’m sitting across the table, he offers his hand as if Soren’s not there. As if Soren didn’t just tell him not to spoil me.

I’m not sure what to think or what to do.

“Don’t be rude,” Soren says. “You seem to have all kinds of manners at your parties.”

I take Mystery Man’s hand across the table, and my gaze holds on the ring on his thumb, an angry skull with a diamond in one eye. I don’t have time to look at his tattoos, but the ring tells me all I need to know.

“I’m Luka.”

I meet his gaze for only a second, but a sizzling sensation still tingles through my chest. “Malia.”