Page 5 of Dash

My flat isn’t perfect. The wallpaper’s peeling off, there’s damp behind the wardrobe, and the plaster is flaking in places, but it’s mine. I hate how she makes me feel pathetic for standing on my own two feet in the only place I’ve ever felt I can be myself.

I slide the mug onto the counter, glancing at the clock. My patience is hanging by a thread, and I need to get ready for work.

“I’m not marrying one of your little polo friends. Besides, it’s not like the Harrington name means anything anymore.”Not since we lost everything.“You say I’m living a fantasy? You’re the one acting like you’re still living in that fucking mansion, drinking Champagne at dinner, with the drivers and the staff. But all of that is gone, Mother. It’s been gone for a decade. You look down your nose at how I live? But this is what I can afford. I’m poor, but so are you. And the Harrington name isn’t worth shit.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, not at first.

Then I watch the mask slip into something ugly.

The slap comes fast. It’s not wild or uncontrolled. It’s precise and deliberate.

My head snaps to the side. The force smashes my teeth against the inside of my cheek, pain spreading through my face.

My breath comes fast yet shallow, like my lungs are wrapped in wire. I should have expected it. Cross any line, except that one. The Harrington name is all my mother has left.

“Don’t youdarespeak about this family like that.” Her perfume fills my nose as she forces herself into my space, but it doesn’t hide the rotten core beneath.

“You can play make believe with this drab little existence you’re creating, but you don’t drag the Harrington name through the mud. I have sacrificed everything for you, and I’ll let you have your little rebellion, girl, but you will marry someoneworthy of our status and you will give up this…” She waves a hand around. “…distractionto be a good wife.”

My fingers tremble, pressed to my throbbing cheek, but my eyes are fire as I turn to her. “If you want to marry for money then go ahead, but I’m not your fucking doll, and I’m not a child. You don’t get to decide my life.”

Her sigh is frustrated. “How long do you think you’ll survive like this, Dayna? Living off scraps, pretending to be one of them? You’re stations ahead of the people you surround yourself with, and they know it too.” She smooths down her dress, a nervous tick she’s had for years. “There’s a dinner next Saturday. The Blackwoods and Ashcombs will be attending. I expect you to be there, dressed appropriately.” Her gaze slides over my hair. “I’ll send Marianna to sort your hair. I can’t have you turning up looking like a ghoul.”

I don’t move, even though my fingers itch to hide my head from her.

“What possessed you to dye it that dark? You don’t have the complexion for it.”

She leans in and I flinch, but she just presses a kiss to my forehead, like I’m a child.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe until she pulls back.

“Saturday, darling. Don’t forget.”

I say nothing, even though I have zero intention of going anywhere.

I hear the door open and close behind her, then that familiar ache in the pit of my stomach opens.

I survived my mother—barely—but she may as well have cut my chest open.

I get through my workday like I’m sinking in wet cement. I paint on my smile, don’t let a single hint of my inner pain show. I’m Dayna Harrington, the funny girl who’ll spread her legs for anyone with a pulse. The party girl. The irresponsibleone. I don’t let anyone glimpse beneath that veil, not even for a moment. I can’t.

I cover the mark my mother left on my face with makeup and pull on my clothes like armour.

Masking, hiding like this, is exhausting and by the time I get home all I want to do is crawl into bed with snacks and a book. Also, alcohol.

When I get into the foyer of my building, I grab my post from the mailbox, flicking through the envelopes, holding my breath there’s nothing scary there. Junk mail and reminders to pay bills I can’t afford until I get paid next week mock me.

Maybe my mother was right.

What am I doing?

Surviving, Dayna. You’re surviving.

Barely.

I shove down her voice, taunting my doubts and fears, and head into the bathroom. I have thirty minutes to get ready, and I make the most of every second.

I don’t wash my hair—there isn’t time—but I run my straightening irons through it until it’s sleek and controlled again.

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