Page 160 of I'm sorry, Princess
“Always,” I say, my voice flat, final. My pulse is steady now, calm in the way only death and revenge can make it.
I prepare myself, because war is coming.
They should’ve never touched my father.
They should’ve never tried to take her from me.
Because now?
I’ll take everything from them.
Chapter Forty-two
Serena
HOTTEST BITCHES ALIVE
Kylie:Fuck Lorenzo! He doesn’t deserve you.
Kylie:Actually, don’t fuck him. It’s wrong. He’s trash.
Clara:Leave her alone, Kylie.
Sienna:I swear I’m going to kill him.
Me:I’m fine, really. I already forgot about him.
Lie.
The truth? My chest still aches, like there’s a fist wrapped around my heart, squeezing. I’ve cried so much I don’t even think I have tears left, but somehow, the pain is still there, raw and sharp. He hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. He’s moved on.
Kylie:Don’t mind her, she’s still in denial.
Kylie:Why did you two break up anyway?
Sienna:Becausehe’s a dickhead.
Clara:I support this statement.
Me:I’m fine, really. I need to get to work. Speak to you later xx
I haven’t told them the truth. Not really. I haven’t told them what actually happened, what he said, what I begged. But I think Clara figured it out that night, when she heard me pleading with him to listen, when she saw me break. And Sienna… she never asked why I woke up in the hospital after the panic attack. She just sat next to me, eyes swollen from crying herself. Clara must’ve told her.
Since then, I haven’t done much living. I’ve barely existed. I curl up in bed, force myself into work, and in between, I torture myself by scrolling through old pictures of us. Him smiling at me. Me laughing at something he whispered. God, I miss him. I miss the dogs too.
My parents, of course, are ecstatic. They got exactly what they wanted. And when I stopped answering their calls, ignoring their texts, blocking them, my father found a new way to punish me. He froze my allowance. As if money could break me. As if I care. I have my job, my own salary, my own apartment. I can survive without his blood-stained money.
But surviving isn’t the same as living.
I drag myself into the bathroom, stare at my reflection. Hollow eyes. Black bags. Skin pale and fragile. I look like I’ve been grieving a death. And in a way, I have.
I cleanse my face, lather on my favorite serum, and massage moisturizer into my skin, trying to bring some life back to it. Foundation next, to cover the bruised shadows under my eyes. Mascara, just enough to make me look awake. By the time I’m done, I look… presentable. Alive on the outside, corpse on the inside.
I straighten my hair, put on my work clothes, and stare at the clock. 8:00 a.m. I should be at work by nine. Maybe I’ll stop for coffee.
My eyes fall on the car keys sitting on the table. His gift. The sleek black Mercedes-AMG GLC 43. I haven’t driven it since the breakup. Couldn’t. The leather still smells like him, like his cologne, and the memories are suffocating. I’ve been taking my old car instead, pretending the car doesn’t exist. But I’m tired of running. Tired of being reminded of him in every corner of my life.
Fuck him.
