Page 87 of Summoned
“Or blind.”
The world shrinks to just their laughter and the weight on my shoulders.
“Well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, they say…”
I repeat it like a mantra. But with all these voices around me, I can’t concentrate. I press my palms over my ears to block them out, curling toward the ground.
They yank my hair and claw my shoulders until pain flashes across my flesh. Clenching my arms, I try to push them off, but they’re stronger. And there are too many of them. They force me back down. I surge again, shoving through hands, through taunts. But they overpower me once more.
Despair coils around me like a second attacker, reinforcing the humiliation. No! I won’t let them keep me down. I suck in a breath and scream.
But no sooner do I push myself up, and I’m crashing to the floor once more. The blow knocks the world sideways. My vision spins, and panic floods my lungs.
I can’t.I can’t.It’s not working.
Tears sting my eyes. I squeeze them shut.Don’t let them see you cry. Don’t give them that.
Then something rains down over my head. Pencils. They strike my back, bounce off my shoulders, and scatter across the stone. Hitting the floor, they roll in every direction like spilled dreams that once drowned in the River of Forgotten Dreams.
I reach forward, and my fingers brush one of them. I know it by touch—the pencil I use for the first strokes of every animal I draw. There’s nothing warmer than the slow unfolding of life on a blank page.
My father took that from me! He convinced me that in the world of successful people, there’s no room for “childish sketches.”‘Drawing is not a real profession.’My talent is only good for drafting buildings.
I clutch the pencil. My palm trembles—not with fear, but with rage. Instead of spinning this time, my visionsharpens. I press my hands into the floor. Pain slices through my knees, my back, my fingers. I rise, and this time, I don’t let them force me down again.
Daniel Deliberov stands in front of me, his smirk fading. I reach out and shove him with a momentum that surprises me. It doesn’t come from muscle, but from a deeper, wilder part inside me.
He stumbles, and the crowd falls silent. They all step back, creating a wide berth around me.
My focus drifts to the haze beyond the tables, and I start toward it…I’ve barely made any progress when my father blocks my path.
His sharp, disapproving scowl makes my shoulders slump, and even the weight of the simple pencil in my hand seems to shrink under it. I flinch inwardly. “Look at you. Naked. Filthy. Holding a pencil. Is this the future you’re choosing?”
My heart pounds in my chest. He keeps staring at me, and with each passing second, his cold, calculated judgment erodes my newfound confidence. “I spent years trying to make you into something. To turn you into a predator. A shark.” He lets out a short, joyless laugh. “And yet… You’re still a prey.”
“Dad, that’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” His voice sharpens. “Would you be anything if you didn’t ride on my money and my name? Is there any substance behind that ‘Little Baroness’ title, Nicole?”
“I…”
“There’s nothing!” The words hit me harder than any slap.
Nothing.
Pain clenches around my heart. Shame floods through every part of me, curling my shoulders inward. My fingersloosen, and the pencil slips from my hand. It rolls across the stone floor, along with the last shred of my confidence.
My father’s right. No matter how hard I try to embody the “Little Baroness,” underneath, I’m just…Nicole.
The loser.
The girl they all used to mock in the middle of the schoolyard.
Gravity crushes me, dragging me to my knees. My gaze snags on the pencil as it skitters farther away, its faint scrape against the stone slicing through the silence.
I bow my head, letting my hair spill forward to shield my face.
Let them not see the tears.
