Page 104 of The Demons We Hide

“I’m not drunk.” A little buzzed, sure, but I’m by no means completely gone. I’m hardly even slurring.

She snorts and whirls around, releasing my arm from her dagger-like claws. I rub the spot where she’d dug in, sure I’ll have a bruise in the morning, and frown at her.

“You made more of a scene than I did,” I tell her. “You practically dragged me out of there in front of?—”

“I dragged you out of that room to save our family the embarrassment,” she cuts me off, her lips—a week fresh from her most recent filler appointment—pursing in distaste.

I scoff. “Embarrassment?” I repeat the word. Is she fucking for real right now? “If anyone is an embarrassment, it’s you!”

The slap comes too quick for me to see, but I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re in a small hallway several paces away from the main ballroom as well as out of eyesight of any of the guests. I should’ve known she’d feel comfortable enough in this setting.

My hands clench into fists at my sides as I slowly turn my head back to face her. I feel all of the emotion in my expression drain away. Every ounce of understanding I might have had disperses. All I feel is cold resentment.

She glares at me. “Do you have anything else to say or are you done with the theatrics, Juliet?”

Oh, I’m done alright. Done giving a single fuck about her stupid fucking charity or Dad’s friends and clients. Done with this whole fucking night. I want to return her slap with one of my own, except I don’t want to stop at one and I don’t want to slap her so much as I want to throw her to the ground and punch her in the face. Over and over again, ruining her makeup and her expensive fillers, eyelashes, and botox.

I want to pin her down and show her what it feels like to hold authority over someone so deeply that they feel not just comfortable and confident in slapping them, but in absolutely wrecking their ass just because of some perceived slight.

“Well?” she demands when I remain silent.

Tipping my head back, I eye her and let everything but apathy go. “Well, what?”

The snarl that rips free from her throat almost makes me smile—almost isn’t enough though. “Go to your room, you’re not to come back down for the rest of the night,” she states, turning away from me. “If anyone asks, tell them that you felt unwell and didn’t want to miss the activities tomorrow.”

“Why would I be allowed that honor?” I ask, my tone dripping in sarcasm.

She whips back to me. “Keep this up and you won’t.”

“Don’t hold back on my account.”

Her hand comes up and I stare at her this time, willing her to finish the action. “Go ahead.” Ice forms across my words. “I fucking dare you.”

Her coal-lined eyes narrow on me, but instead of responding with a second slap, she lowers her hand and then waves me away. “Ugh, just go,” she grits out. “I’m disappointed in you.”

“Likewise.” Before she can respond, though, I stomp around her and enter the main hall. My heels clack across the tiles, loud and echoing. Maybe all it takes to walk right in them is righteous fury because not once do I look down and not once do I stumble this time.

I don’t go back to the hotel room they booked for me, but instead, I head for the small hotel bar on the opposite side of the building. Out through the courtyard again and then into a hallway that’s for more public guests than those like my parents and their charity attendees, I hang a right and stomp towards the open archway that leads into a darker room lit with candle wall sconces and dim chandeliers that cost more than most people’s cars.

The bar is mostly empty with only a few men and women in expensive work clothes scattered around the low tables and bar top. I wave my fingers to the bartender on duty, catching his eye as I head for a booth in the farthest, darkest corner. I slide between the velvet red hanging curtains pinned to either side of the opening and onto the bench seat just as a waitress shows up.

Money, at least, has its perks. No one even bats an eye as a fifteen-year-old orders a drink. Even if they know I’m not twenty-one, though, no one here cares. I’m not with friends making a nuisance. I’m not drunk as my mother claimed—at least, not yet.

She thinks a few shots can make me drunk? Oh, I’ll show her drunk. I’ll show her fucking belligerent. Let’s see what she thinks of the family’s reputation then, of theembarrassmentI cause then.

“Two doubles of vodka and a dirty martini,” I say before the waitress can even introduce herself. She pauses a moment, her gaze moving over my features and down to the black and glittering formal gown I’m still wearing before she peers back at the bartender.

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her. “Problem?” I snap.

“No…” she replies, though she doesn’t seem that confident in her answer.

A moment later, though, she turns away and hurries back to the bar and a while after that, the drinks are delivered with a different waitress with a sour expression. I don’t even wait for her to finish setting down the rest as I grab one of the doubles and down it in one go. The older woman pulls back as if surprised and I reach for the second shot glass. I down that one too and push them towards the edge.

“Two more.” This waitress, at least, doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the now empty glasses and then heads across the bar.

The alcohol burns down my throat and into my stomach, warming me from the inside out as I sit there and stew in my silent anger.I’man embarrassment?Really?

My fingers clench around the dainty stem of the martini glass and I bring the drink up to my lips. Fancy drinks like this always taste like shit unless it’s top shelf liquor, but tonight what I really want is to go back to that damn ballroom, grab Bran and Avery and disappear somewhere with nothing more than a six pack of beer and sit and chat for the rest of the night.

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