Page 125 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

The corset underneath is so tight it feels like my ribs are being rearranged.

My father insisted on it, said I needed to lookimmaculate. In his world, that translates to perfectly packaged, ready for business deals or marriage proposals, whichever comes first.

We’ve only been at this gala for an hour, but it already feels endless.

The ballroom is a blur of chandeliers and false smiles, politicians, socialites, businessmen, and criminals. This is the reason we’re in Paris. For this exact event.

I’ve shaken so many hands tonight that I’ve stopped bothering to count. Each one feels as empty as the last.

My feet ache in these heels. Don’t get me wrong, I love dressing up. I love high heels as much as the next woman, especially Yves Saint Laurent.

But this outfit, the one he chose, doesn’t feel like me at all. Wearing it feels like a punishment.

I shift my weight and fix the same polite smile I’ve been wearing all night while my father trades yet another empty greeting with someone whose name I’ll forget before dessert.

A man approaches, his strides confident, his face set in arrogance. He looks like he’s in his fifties, maybe early sixties. His suit is immaculate, his hair perfectly styled, and his eyes take in everything, as if nothing ever escapes them. There’s a smirk playing on his mouth, and something in me tightens.

My father beams.

It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him all evening, which somehow makes it worse.

The man stops in front of us, shakes my father’s hand, and they trade pleasantries.

Then the man’s attention shifts to me.

He extends a hand. I hesitate, but habit wins, and I give him mine. He brings it to his lips, and the touch makes my skin crawl. I’ll need to scrub my hand raw later just to feel clean again.

“My daughter,” my father says, his voice carrying over the noise around us. “Ophelia.”

I school my features, the polite smile slipping easily into place. “A pleasure,” I murmur.

His eyes move over me. “Indeed,” he says, the word heavy with implication.

My father laughs, that familiar, false sound I’ve learned to hate. “I hope she’s to your liking.”

The words sting, cruel and humiliating.

To your liking.

As if I’m something he owns. Something to be appraised, bargained for, sold. Not a person with a will of her own, just a body that happens to breathe in his world.

I keep my smile, even as the blood drains from my face. My pulse hammers in my throat.

The man, whose name I neither know nor care to learn, lets his smirk deepen. “I think she’ll do quite nicely.”

My lungs seize. I force the smile tighter, until it feels like the corners of my mouth might split. I mutter something about needing to freshen up and step away before my legs give out.

I barely make it to the restroom before the shaking starts.

The door closes behind me, and I brace myself against the marble counter. My reflection looks ghost pale under the golden light. My chest rises too fast. I grip the edge of the sink, trying to ground myself.

Breathe, Ophelia. Just breathe.

I count.

One.

Two.