Page 3 of Sold to Her Enemy

The green of the camisole hugs my D-cup breasts just so, and I straighten in the chair, my shoulders back.

Tonight, I am not the daughter of scandal, the girl who lost her dream, or the caregiver to my mother. Tonight, I am a woman who is going to secure her future.

And after I will laugh in the face of those who took everything from me, leaving my life shattered.

A rap tap on the door before a handler pokes their head in. “It’s time, Davis.”

“I’m ready.”

I stand, shove my feet into my black stilettos, and follow him through the door, taking strength from the alias I chose for tonight.

Davis.

It’s my father’s name.

It's ironic that I chose to use it tonight, but it’s my way of reclaiming it for something good again. It makes me feel strong to hear it, and I need all the strength I can get tonight.

No matter what, he’d be proud of me.

And no matter what, I will have my revenge. My father is a smart, kind, brilliant man who didn’t deserve to have his life’s work destroyed.

I follow the handler, a stocky man with a ball cap, dressed in all black, to the stage area, focusing on the floor before me.

Memories flash through my mind like they are on a carousel. The library was a point of pride in the beautiful stately house in Boston that I grew up in.

The beautiful dining room of my parent’s neighbors, who were more than neighbors; they were close friends and business partners. I considered Jackie McIntyre to be another mom to me. I know my mother loves me, and there’s no doubt she loves my father. My mother is the kind of person who flutters from person to person, and at times, it’s made me feel that there’s a distance between her and me. But whatever I lacked in maternal attention was made up for by the warmth of Jackie, who always encouraged me to go for my dreams. Alongside Jackie was Grace Ellison, a friend of my mother’s and Jackie’s, who owned the stables I rode at. I push the thoughts of Grace away, my heart breaking into grief and awe, wondering why she’s never called me in all these months.

I spent so much time studying at the McIntyre’s antique table.

I force my feet to move as a memory of the rolling hills of the stables where I learned to ride horses flashes through my mind.

My heart twists, thinking of my mare, Penelope. I stop, resting my hand against the wall for a moment because I feel Penelope’s soft coat under my hands as I’m grooming her after a hard ride.

I want to sob, but I take a deep breath.

Tonight is going to change everything, and that’s a good thing.

A knock on the door brings me out of my thoughts. The professionals are packing up their tools when a knock on the door sounds.

“Davis, come along,” the handler says.

I nod, and with my head held high, I follow him to the staging area. There is no more time for grief or tears. This moment is about stepping into the future I create. And I will build my future so nobody can take it away from me.

Right before I step out of the wings, I allow one thought for the man who ruined my life, and my blood boils.

But thinking of him gives me the strength fueled by anger to step out onto the stage when my lot number is called.

It’s pitch black in the audience, but I feel the light above me as I do my best model walk and flaunt what I have to offer.

2 ADRIAN

“I’ll have a Bullshot,” I tell the bartender, rapping my knuckles on the dark oak top of the bar.

The bartender’s eyebrows raise in surprise, but I give a one-shoulder shrug. I don’t care what he thinks.

When in Rome, I order a Negroni. When back home in Boston, I ask for a Ward Eight. On business up in Canada, I order whatever top-shelf whiskey they have behind the bar.

Like collecting souvenirs, having the drink that the place is known for is a tradition of mine.

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