Page 17 of Depravity

“Yes, Miss?” I say, trying to sound well-mannered, contrite. My backside has only just recovered from the last beating I got. Idon’t want another one. Besides, I’m acutely aware that Mr. X is there, observing all of this.

“Your family has requested you.” She says.

“Excuse me?” What does that mean?

She huffs, immediately annoyed by my apparent stupidity. “It means, they want you at home, stupid girl,” She swats me over the back of the head as if that will knock some sense into me. “Get your things, they’ve sent a car for you.”

Home? But why? My stomach turns with unease.

It’s not uncommon for my grandfather to have me sent home early. He’s paranoid, more so in his old age. He’s convinced that I’ll do the same thing as my mother, that I’ll fall pregnant and bring shame on us all. As if I have the freedom to even look at a man.

I glance back, saying a silent goodbye to Clara and then I practically sprint out of the hall. My things are all in the lockers and if there really is a car coming, then I’ll have to hurry to get round to the front or I’ll be in trouble for keeping the driver waiting again.

I don’t understandwhy I’ve been called back early, but I keep my mouth shut and don’t ask questions. With my grandfather away on business, Giselle is in charge, which means absolute hell for me if I’m not careful.

The only shining light is that her fiancé left three days ago, so at least I don’t have to face that horror.

As I walk through the side door, the house is a hub of activity. The maids are rushing about with their arms laden with boxes.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

One of them glances at me before she scurries away like I’m infectious, and I decide that it’s better not to know. Whatever this is, it isn’t meant for me anyway. My aunt does this regularly; she has nice little soirees with her friends whenever my grandfather is out of town. She probably wanted me home early so she could lock me in my room and ensure I was well out of her way. Not that I’m complaining, mind due. Even a night shut away on an empty stomach is better than having to endure the abuse that usually comes my way.

When I get to my room, I shut the door, ditch my bag and then take a shower. I have nothing else to do tonight but simply while away the hours so I take my time, washing my hair, cleaning myself, even shaving so that I follow all those nice little rules expected of me.

I then dry myself off, get into my pyjamas because why the hell not, and then settle in with a book. A safe book. A permitted book.

My stomach grumbles in protest, and I rub it absentmindedly. You’d think it’d be used to these moments of starvation, but I guess not.

When the door opens, I half expect it to be one of the maids, that she’s snuck me out something while no one was looking.

But my smile dies the minute I see her instead.

Giselle comes waltzing in, with her friend right behind her. My eyes dart between them, wondering why the fuck they’re in my part of the house? In the shit part. And especially why, when she’s supposed to be having her party?

My stomach drops like I already know something horrible is going to go down.

“Wha, wha, what do you want?” I ask, trying to sound far calmer than I feel.

“Wha, wha, wha..” Milena teases, mocking my speech while Giselle smirks.

I sit back, feeling cornered as they both sit on the end of the bed, looking like vultures.

Milena mocks my pyjamas and Giselle pretends to tell her to stop, as if she’d ever defend me.

Giselle then starts making small talk, acting like this is normal, as if she regularly hangs out with me, as if she likes me. I look between them, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“You’re almost done with school,” Giselle remarks, twirling her hair around her finger. “Have any plans for what you’re going to do after?”

I shake my head. Like I’m allowed such a thing as a job. Being a Monclere means we have a standard to set. If my grandfather wasn’t trying to pretend I didn’t exist, then I’d be officially up on the list of eligible debutantes this year. I guess that’s one thing I can be grateful for.

Milena reaches across, snatching the book that’s still in my hand, “What is this?” She asks, as if she thinks I’d be stupid enough to have anything forbidden out with all the activity in the house downstairs.

“A book,” I reply.

“A booook,” She mocks.

Giselle bats her hand, “Stop it,” She says, “My niece is a smart girl, reading is good for keeping her mind occupied.”

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