Page 4 of Dash

“Bitches like you choke on all the gilded cock you swallow until you’re replaced by younger models.”

“Prick!”

I step through the door, slamming it behind me. Rage and something ugly coils inside me as I climb onto my bike. Then I ride off without looking back, leaving the fractured parts of my soul in that fucking kitchen.

TWO

DAYNA

I have a headache.It’s probably because I’m grinding my teeth into chalk, but I can’t loosen my jaw. Maybe I can slip into another dimension, just for one minute until she stops talking.

But I’m not that lucky.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” That snapped statement rips a suffering sigh from my lungs.

“It’s hard to ignore you when you’re standing in my kitchen at six a.m.”

I reach for my coffee on the counter. Caffeine will help.

Maybe if it was laced with arsenic.

“Well, you didn’t leave me much choice, darling.” She flicks her hair over her shoulder. It’s the perfect shade of brown, dyed to hide the grey. Heaven forbid anyone knows the great Evelyn Harrington is ageing. “You’ve been dodging my calls all week.”

For good reason. Getting emotionally flayed open by my mother is never high on my to-do list. I don’t enjoy bleeding out on my own kitchen floor while she tears me to pieces for sport.

“I’ve been busy.” I hate the apology in my voice. I don’t owe her that, but years of ingrained people pleasing is hard to bury.

“Doing what? That sad little office job you insist on doing isn’t work, Dayna.”

I grip my mug until my fingers ache. Don’t stoop to her level. Not today.

But I can’t hold my tongue.

“I’m sorry it doesn’t meet your high expectations.”

Her gaze slides around my flat, her nose wrinkling like she’s stepped in shit.

My spine snaps straight. It’s not a palace, but I’ve made it cosy, warm. The bed is behind a screen that leaves the rest of the space open, and I’ve added throw pillows to the second-hand sofa to soften the harsh, dark material—and to hide the frayed cushions.

I don’t have a television, but a wall filled with books that I’ve collected since I was a kid. Stories I disappeared in for hours. My mother never understood that either.

Harringtons don’t daydream. They shimmer like diamonds to catch a husband, and then they sell themselves into a life of servitude as a wife. I never wanted to be the trophy on some arrogant prick’s arm.

“It’s… beneath us, Dayna.” She means both my job and my flat.

I scoff. I can’t help it. “So is living off Grandad’s charity, Mum, but you seem to manage.”

Her chin lifts, eyes blazing for a moment. “Better that than living like… this. Tell me, Dayna, how long do you plan on playing this game? Independence loses its charm when you’re living in one room, eating out of tins, and selling your soul to some middle-manager. A marriage would solve all your problems, darling, and I can help with that.”

Don’t take the bait…

But it’s hard when she’s throwing knives at my chest.

She’s deluded if she thinks that name alone will secure status. The people in her circle marry up, not down.

But my mother has never let go of who she was before.

She would never live somewhere like this. Her snobbery wouldn’t allow it.

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