Page 18 of The Bad Boy Rule

With that, she drops the stick at my feet and skates off toward the exit, with me watching her hips sway the entire fucking way.

NINE

LENNON

A cage isstilla cage, regardless of how brightly the bars gleam.

And lately, the bars surrounding me seem to be closing in, leaving no space to breathe. Each inhale is a pained reminder that every move I make is on display for the world to see and whisper words of judgment about.

I’ve spent my entire life trying to be the perfect daughter. To never make mistakes. To only be someone that my parents could be proud of, in all aspects.

Bleeding myself dry to be the perfect puppet for everyone to admire.

Turns out being perfect is fucking exhausting.

Somewhere along the way, resentment planted roots, deep and twisty, in my heart and bloomed into something else entirely.

Something that has me desperate to break the lock on my cage. To be free from everything I hate about my life.

“Would you like a glass of champagne, Miss Rousseau?” The waitress’s soft voice beside me jolts me from my thoughts. I glance over to see a large silver platter resting on her splayedhand, full of ornate glasses filled to the brim with bubbling Dom Perignon.

Pasting on a bright smile that I know won’t reach my eyes, I shake my head and politely decline. “No, thank you.”

“Of course. Enjoy your evening.” With a slight nod, she turns on her heel, leaving me with my thoughts once again.

Although I could never admit it out loud, I hate these events almost as much as I hate the people attending them.

They’re an opulent show of wealth and power that always has me feeling slightly dirty when I leave.

My gaze roams around the room packed full of people my father invited to tonight’s charity gala in hopes that they’ll donate, largely, to the cause.

The grand ballroom where tonight’s dinner is being held is lavish in the old-money kind of way. The walls are painted a deep crimson that appears almost black and are lined with expensive oil-painted art framed in ornate gold. The floors are original hardwood that’s been kept polished and pristine, dating back to when it was first built. A large crystal chandelier is suspended in the center of the room along the vaulted ceiling, the intricate pieces catching the dim light and sparkling. The scent of champagne and cigar smoke hangs in the air, draping over everything inside of the room.

It’s every bit of what you’d expect when hosting some of the wealthiest people in the state.

And I want nothing more than to leave and go back to the confines of my apartment, where I don’t have to play the perfect, dutiful daughter.

I’d even rather be facing off with Saint Devereaux for the second time today rather than be here, and that is saying a lot since I loathe him with every fiber of my being.

How ironic that tonight is supposed to be about raising money and awareness for charity, yet it feels like a fashion show where the wealthy are trying to outshine each other.

Everyone’s dressed to perfection in designer gowns and custom-tailored tuxedos, the wives dripping with Harry Winston diamonds, Cartier gold around their necks, Oscar De La Renta ball gowns cinched around their waists.

Outfits that likely cost more than the donation they’ll pledge tonight.

Eying the amount of money in this room causes the thin strand of pearls that my parents gifted me for my fourteenth birthday to suddenly feel heavy and constricting around my neck.

Usually, when I attend these events for my father, I spend the majority of the time watching the clock and counting down the minutes until I’m free to leave. And tonight is no different.

The last hour has dragged by even more than usual, the minute hand on the large grandfather clock on the wall seeming to tick by at an unnaturally slow pace, one that has my feet aching from these heels. Nearly as much as my face hurts from the fake smile I’ve worn the entire night.

God, I want out of here.

No, Ineedto get out of here before I scream.

I search for the exit to slip away to the bathroom, hopefully unnoticed, when I spot it across the room, the floor stretching so much farther than my feet can possibly carry me in these heels.

Everyone knows that you have to break in Louboutins, but when my mother presented this entire outfit for me earlier today, I knew that I couldn’t say no. Not unless I wanted to see disappointment in her bright green eyes, which are almost a mirror to my own.

---