Page 11 of The Good Girl

“That’s what it looks like, Elena.” She slides into her seat and taps her pen against her notebook disapprovingly as she stares ahead.

I straighten my shoulders a little, why did it feel like I was on trial here? “I was feeling sick, so he took me to grab some food. That’s all.” I explain it slowly, not that it was any of her business.

Her mouth makes a strange twitching motion as she clicks her tongue. “You may want to warn your parents, they might not like this with your dad’s campaign starting soon.”

Mrs. Krankle enters, flustered and muttering apologies as she places her textbooks down on the desk, cutting off my response. Serena doesn’t understand, my parents won’t be angry, they’ll be happy. They’ll start organizing my bachelorette party and registering for gifts. I wanted to wait until after college to get married, but that wasn’t the agreement. I clench my fists as I recall the conversation I’d had with my father about it at the beginning of the school year. We’d been having dinner, my parents and I, as we discussed what my father had planned for the upcoming year. He liked to make sure we were all on the same page, that way we could always present a ‘united front’ to the town. He hadn’t even paused when he told me that I’d be married at the end of the school year. That college would be unlikely. He stole my future without even blinking.

“Can’t this wait until I finish my studies?” I drop my fork, my appetite gone with my father’s words. I was actually going to have to marry Tristan Radcliffe. I had no choice. And I could almost live with that, except I would have to give up everything.

Father sounds bored as he cuts into the steak our chef has prepared. It oozes blood, and I watch wordlessly as he brings it to his mouth and chews it slowly before answering. “It’s up to your husband if you even go to college, Elena.”

My mouth falls open as I stare at him. I had inherited my father’s opal-shaped eyes and his high cheekbones, but none of his dark coloring. My temperament was similar to his, however. He never needed to raise his voice to frighten me or his hand to punish, and yet he was always in control.

My mother takes a sip of her wine, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the crystal glass as she watches me over the rim. We have the same green eyesand fair coloring, but her hair is enhanced with highlights and expert styling. She has a beautiful hourglass figure, always enhanced by her specially fitted wardrobe. Trophy wife wasn’t a term that did my mother justice, she was from one of the oldest families in this town. She is a Hawthorne through and through. The dark edge of her personality was always lingering in the air around her as she looked like a Botticelli painting who could tempt the devil himself.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m going to college.” I can feel frustration moving through me as my hands begin to tremble.

My father scoffs softly. “I doubt it. Your job is to be a wife and a mother. And let’s just say Malcom isn’t particularly fond of feminism and women’s rights. He’s a bit of a traditionalist.”

I wasn’t marrying Malcom, Tristan was my future husband-to-be, but it was pointless correcting my father because until we were members of The Society, we were the possessions of our parents.

“I want to go to college,” I say firmly, looking between my parents. “I’ve worked hard.”

I’ve signed up for every class they asked me to. Learned instruments I hated. Punished my body doing sports they chose. I worked so damn hard. I tried so hard. My mother’s face doesn’t change, and for once in my life I wish I knew what was going on inside her head, but it was like she locked her thoughts away where no one could see. The corner of her mouth twitches, and just as I think she’s about to say something, she takes another sip from her glass.

“And I’m sure you’ll work at this too,” my father says calmly, as he cuts the next piece of meat like I don’t even exist in this conversation.

“Dad—” I choke the word out as something takes root in my chest.Be a good girl. Behave. Don’t act like a child.I hear his voice in my head, even though he doesn’t say the words aloud.

He pauses, and looks at me, dark eyes boring into mine. “Don’t disappoint me, Elena. I hate it when you let me down.”

“Yes, Father.” I bow my head to hide the tear that falls down my cheek. I’m not sad. But I can’t be angry either. Good girls don’t get angry.

He sighs gently. “I think you’re done here, you are excused.”

I leave without another word and grab my dance bag as I go. I needed to get to the studio.

Chapter Ten

Tristan

Everyone in Silvercrest is hiding something. There are probably more bodies buried in these woods than there are millionaires in Monte Carlo. I’m pretty much an open book, I like to smoke weed, occasionally dabbling in something a little harder at parties. Up until now, I fucked who I liked, usually Blythe for ease, but now there’s one girl I’ve got my eye on. I don’t try in school, but that’s because I don’t need to. The fact I only attend when I feel like it doesn’t affect my grades, and I couldn’t give a shit about whether the teachers like me or not—which most don’t. They write me off as a rich waster, who only cares about getting high, and they’d be right for the most part. But painting is my secret. Something that’s all mine. I doubt even my father knows that I use the attic studio my mother left behind, he likes to pretend she never even existed, and he’s rarely home anyway.

I wasn’t lying to Elena when I said I had plans today, I do, and I’m already running late thanks to her father’s new diet. Fucking moron. I don’t understand why she insists on being his good little soldier, following his words like they were the law. A little rebellion was needed in the Montgomery household, and I was determined to strike that match before the summer.

Riding my bike out of town, I head down the coast towards Port Ellsworth to a sweet little restaurant called Mariana. It’s got these Mediterranean vibes that have me desperate for Greek sunshine, feta cheese, and ouzo like it’s nobody's business. My mother wasn’t from Silvercrest originally, her family moved around since she was a Navy brat, and she’d always said Greece felt like home in her soul. It’s where I’d spent the last two summers, on a friend's yacht, sunning it up away from my father.

As I enter the restaurant, I spot Reid Taylor sitting on a table near the window, sunlight warming his face. He’s in his early thirties and owns a small art gallery in Port Ellsworth. We met by coincidence at a fancy party in Newtown, but our mutual love of art got us chatting. He gave me his card, I don’t think he ever expected me to call. But I did.

“Reid,” I say curtly with a nod as I slide into the chair opposite him and order a coffee.

His smile fills his entire face, it’s one of the reasons I like him, all of his emotions play across his face like a picture book. “My favorite artist!”

I chuckle. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got a buyer for the last piece you sent me.” He wags his eyebrows at me.

“The Violin?” I painted it years ago, when Elena had been playing regularly, trying to master the instrument. I came across it when I had a clear-out a few weeks ago so that I could make space for new pieces. It’s funny that I find out today she’ll be playing again. Wasn’t coincidence a slippery fucker?

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