Page 51

LIA

I stared at my ceiling for a good thirty minutes in the morning before I got out of bed.

Today was the day before my father’s birthday party—where I’d be forced to interact with my ‘real’ father for the first time in a decade.

After last night’s unsettling dinner with Marcus, he’d made me pose artfully against him outside the restaurant, with my arms wrapped around his neck, staring up at him adoringly for a few intrepid reporters.

I had no doubt blown-up photos of the scars on my wrists had been on every gossip site by midnight, but I didn’t care about that anymore—I had far bigger things on my mind.

Like…did my mom…know?

And…was she willing?

And I hated that I had to ask that, the very thought of it made me want to throw up, but after Uncle Freddie had forced himself so often on me, who knew what the fuck he was capable of? Plus my mom was blacked out plenty, so like, even if she didn’t know, he’d definitely had opportunity.

If she had known though—if there’d ever been a sliver of a chance—why hadn’t she ever said something?

Was that why Uncle Freddie got to live with us for so long?

So they could carry on covertly?

In addition to having access to me?

I made the kind of faces that caused plastic surgeons pain, and screamed into my pillows more than once—which was how I knew that Rhaim had not been watching.

If he was, he would’ve called.

Which meant he was out “doing things”.

There’d been a brief moment the night before when Marcus had almost seemed human.

Opportunistic and oily, but maybe we breathed the same air—and then he’d gone and ruined it with awful question after question.

“How many times did you try?” and “Did you know you were cutting the wrong way?” and “Who found you?”

It was rude, but I tolerated it, because I didn’t want to make a scene.

He was a cruel fucking bastard though—just like his progeny.

And then he finished off with, “If I ever see you with anything sharper than a butter knife in your hand, Lia—I’ll commit you.”

Which would’ve been more emotionally burdensome if I didn’t know Rhaim was coming.

I couldn’t count down to our wedding next weekend though fast enough—because I knew Rhaim would rain hellfire on Marcus personally between now and then.

But I didn’t know what to do with myself for the rest of today. The rest of Arnold’s appointments had been mysteriously canceled from my calendar—which meant I was on my own.

I sat up, with a deep inclination to make them regret that.

Three Amazon same-day-deliveries later, I had a tripod, a ring light, and my favorite mascara that I was almost out of.

I pulled a chair into my bathroom, made my sink look nice, washed my face, and started up a whole new Instagram account.

Rhaim would’ve hated it—but he wasn’t fucking here now, was he?

I took a picture of myself for my profile picture, then took and posted pictures of both my wrists—one of them with my moth tattoo and all—for everyone to see.

Then I hopped on live and waited. “Hey everyone!” I said, and as the first few people popped in I shouted them out by name.

“It’s me,” I said, waving. “Let’s wait a little bit for some more people to get on—tell your friends—I have some things to say, okay?

And you’re not gonna want to miss them,” I promised—and then started doing my make-up, just like my recent make-up artists had shown me.

“Oh! This?” I said, answering a question, and holding the tube up in front of my hand.

“Okay, so, this is my usual,” I said, and fished a different foundation tube up to show them.

“I’ve been a La Mer girl for a while now—don’t come for me, I know it’s stupid expensive. But it melts in like second skin, and it never clings when I’m tired or puffy, which is…a lot lately. It’s like makeup that forgives you for your choices, you know?

“But today I’m using NARS Light Reflecting, which I’ve been testing because it’s more buildable, and a little more—friendly?

I don’t know, there’s something about it that’s a little less intimidating, like it won’t judge you if you over-blend your concealer.

La Mer is for the date you dress up for.

NARS is the one you can cry around. And, yeah, they both survive a press conference—but only one of them would survive a panic attack and still look cute in a bathroom selfie after,” I said, dabbing some onto my middle finger and padding it around my face.

“Still with me?” I asked—and hundreds of little hearts and astonished faces started filling the screen.

I couldn’t help but give my phone a very genuine smile.

“So—I’m here, not just because I need to get ready, but also so I could talk to you all about something—especially since you probably already read it on your aunt’s favorite gossip blog,” I said, smoothing out my foundation with a big round brush, before moving onto a light bronzer and a highlighter.

“This?” I said, flashing my wrist with my moth tattoo to the camera and holding it there. “It wasn’t a cry for attention. It wasn’t weakness. And it’s not going to be used against me anymore,” I said, moving onto my blush, and then puckering my lips for my lipliner.

“I was in pain,” I said, when I’d managed my cupid’s bow.

“And I asked for help. That shouldn’t be a scandal.

That should be human. And the people who leaked this?

” I said, swirling my lip brush in to get the last of my Dior Red 999 out of the tube to paint it on.

“They thought it would shame me. They wanted to ruin a wedding…with…what. The truth?”

I made sure to sound appropriately untouchable, and rolled my eyes.

“I’m not saying this for sympathy,” I went on, blinking at my reflection, into my mascara wand.

“And I don’t want your pity, either. I’m not sorry for surviving, and I’m not ashamed that I got help,” I said, beginning to saw my mascara through my lower lashes.

“What I am furious about is that anyone thought they could weaponize my story against me. As if the worst thing a woman can be in public is vulnerable,” I said, kissing my lips at my mirror and checking their line, before giving the camera my full attention.

“So to whoever you are—you should be very careful. Not because I’m related to Chef Boyardee,” I said, mugging for the camera with my callback, as hearts flooded the screen.

“But because I’m the one holding the mic now.

And if I learned anything in all those clinics and therapy chairs, it’s this—silence is what kills people. ”

I gave it a moment to sink in, and then waved, setting my ring light to ‘candle-glow’ before blowing a kiss at the internet. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I promised—and then turned the live off.

Arnold called my normal phone half-a-second later—and in my head I could hear him reminding me that any of my social media was supposed to have a mandatory 48 hour cooling off period before posting, according to the prenup.

I turned it off, then pulled out make-up remover and a Lunése Moon-Soak face mask.

I was taking the rest of the day off.

I had some motherfucking books to read.