Page 42 of The Good Girl

Fuck.I was obsessed. Consumed. Elena was mine. And I was going to prove it to her at this stupid ball. There would be no escape for her there, I’d make sure of it.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Elena

Tonight’s the masquerade ball, and it feels like I’m suffocating. It isn’t just one thing either, it’s everything. After the party and Serena, I wanted to leave the cheerleading squad, but I didn’t know how to approach my father. Last time had resulted in a kneeling punishment that still made my knees sting when I thought of the stupid straw mat. I didn’t want to be a disappointment but I also didn’t want to surround myself with people who were only too happy to feed me to the wolves. People were treating me differently in school, some with reverence and others with fear as they walked past me in the corridor, and despite Tabitha’s support, I still couldn’t get used to it.

As the limo pulls up to the city hall, I look down at my hands. My fingers ache from practicing the violin intensely, and my concealer hides the faint bruise on my chin. I know I’m not as awful as Tristan likes to joke, but he is right. There is no heart in what I play. I don’t enjoy it, and you can hear that in the melody, the notes feel heavy and forced, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

I’m wearing a gold floor-length, strapless dress with a corseted waist and a sweetheart neckline, which is doing wonders for my figure but nothing for my comfort. I try to adjust discreetly, but my father rolls his eyes as he sits opposite me in a white tuxedo with a white half-mask, while my mother wears a blood red gown with a thigh-high split and a black venetian-themed mask with feathers. They both look like the embodiment of wealth, as they sit, not touching or talking to one another. Although it didn’t appear as though my mother had said anything about Sam and what I had done, there was still an odd tension between my parents.

“If you had followed the eating plan my secretary sent you, the dress would fit perfectly,” my father says with a grimace, looking away as if he’s disgusted by me.

I murmur under my breath as I try once again to adjust, “You mean the one that had me eating air three times a day with a side of anorexia as a snack?”

My mother chuckles softly, and I’m still baffled by the growing bond between us while my father turns to me, eyes narrowed as he hisses, “What was that? Were you being insolent?”

I shake my head, mortified that he heard. I didn’t want another punishment. I hadn’t meant to be that loud. There’s that feeling again, that anger just slowly churning away inside me as the bones of my corset bite into my skin. Why did I need to lose weight? Wasn’t I pushing my body hard enough as it was? Why did he choose this dress? Couldn’t I have picked my own? The corner of my mother’s mouth pulls up into a half-smile, and I know she’s waiting to see what I’ll do. She wants me to give in, to do whatever I want, but it's a trap. I need to behave. I need to be a good girl. I inhale slowly and count to ten.

“I’m sorry, Father,” I whisper as the door is opened by the driver.

“Get out. And both of you had better mind your manners tonight. Do I make myself clear?” His voice is cold, but his public persona begins to slip into place as he plasters on a huge fake smile before climbing out of the car.

“Yes, Randolph,” my mother sighs before winking at me. I don’t need to know what she had planned, but there was no way she was going to be a docile wife this evening. Not behind the scenes anyway.

We walk up the grand stairs and pose for photos with the local press before entering the hall. Together we look like the perfect family, accomplished father, beautiful wife, and gifted daughter, all smiling and posing for the public. If only they knew what was happening beneath the surface.

“Miss, your violin is just in the room to your left. We’re ready for you to come on stage as planned in about forty-five minutes,” a member of the staff informs me as we stand near the entrance of the ballroom. Why didn’t I put my foot down about this? Why didn’t I tell my father no?

“Are you ready to perform?” he asks, and I feel like my throat is closing up. I want to scream no, but it doesn’t come out. I nod because that’s all I can do.

He leans in, and to those passing by he looks like a doting father wishing me luck as he murmurs, “I wouldn’t want any embarrassing mistakes, Elena. Tonight is very important.”

My skin prickles, and I push down that simmering rage that keeps burning beneath the surface. I quash the voice that screams ‘How dare he?’ inside my head. I ignore the stab of guilt as I imagine freeing myself from this fucking dress and running away. I let the walls go up as I close myself off and try to calm the storm inside.

I enter the side room alone and eye my violin case wearily. Reluctantly, I open the clips and flip up the lid. It takes me a few moments to register that something is wrong, and it’s like a slow exhale of relief as I see that all my strings have been cut. Even my bow hairs have been severed. My violin is useless. I don’t feel solace for long as the panic begins to set in, my father was going to kill me.

That is, if he could find me first. Fastening my ivory mask in place, I slowly sneak out and make my way into the ballroom, trying to lose myself in the crowds. I weave through beautifully dressed people, some I recognize, and there’s a strange ease in my chest at being able to move around without everyone’s eyes watching my every move.

A hand darts out and grabs my arm. “What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be playing your violin.” My mother’s voice is quiet as she tries not to draw attention to us. She’s standing with some people I don’t recognize with their faces covered, but something about them feels familiar. I think the man to her left may be my uncle Rowan but his mask sports a plumage of feathers that hides his hair. One person has their hand on her hip, and for a moment I’m confused at how relaxed she seems away from my father, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she regards me carefully, the corner of her mouth twitching ever so slightly at my rebellion.

I shake my head. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Head over to The Marble Hall, it’s where the auction pieces are being displayed. He won’t find you there.” She grins, and it reminds me of the Cheshire Cat. Calculating. Sly. Tucking a strand of my hair back into place, she whispers, “You’ll have to face him eventually though, you can’t hide all night, Lena.”

* * *

I enter The Marble Hall, which is named so because of the creamy marble floor and Corinthian pillars, making it easily one of the most beautiful rooms in the building, with this almost sacred, museum-esque feel to it that has me wandering around between the marble statues in awed silence. Beautiful emerald chaise lounges are dotted about the place, so that you can sit and bask in the spiritual vibe of the place. The walls are usually adorned with various pieces of classical art, but tonight they’ve all been replaced either with new works of art or glass cases displaying other auction offerings. I enjoy events like these, seeing what people are donating, it’s almost like having a sneak peek into their lives. How did they get the item they were auctioning off? Why are they getting rid of it? How much money would it raise?

The first painting is a watercolor of a woman reading amongst some shelves, she looks engrossed as the sunlight filters in, making her little more than a silhouette. Her face is shrouded in shadow, but the artist has created this ethereal atmosphere that invites you to get lost in the story. It’s beautiful and filled with a sense of longing that has my pulse quickening.

I move on to where an oil painting of a dancer, exhausted and spent on the floor, captures my attention. Her face is hidden, but I don’t need it to see the pain, the disappointment, or the sadness I knew I’d find there. The soft blue hues combined with flecks of yellow and pink make my heart race. I know those feelings well, almost like I know this woman.

The third painting is titled ‘My Queen,’ and as soon as I see it, I know why my heart feels like it’s about to burst. The queen in the painting is naked, her body covered in blood. It’s everywhere, like she’s waded through a crimson river as she stands defiantly. The areas of skin that are still pink are marked with bloody fingerprints or lines. A black barbed-wire crown rests on her head, and while she is more beautiful than me, those eyes are mine, there’s no denying that.

These paintings were me.

I reach out to touch the canvas, pausing when I feel a warm breath on my neck. Tristan. Why is he everywhere I turn? And why wasn’t I mad about that anymore?

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