I wake up, relieved to find Jackson's side of the bed empty. My heart had pounded like a drum last night when he stumbled into the room with the heavy scent of dirt and sweat coating him. I was prepared, my fingers clutching the cool blade hidden under my pillow, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
Fortunately, he simply collapsed onto the bed with his snores filling the room moments later. Whatever task his brother had set for him must have been exhausting. I let out a sigh as the tension in my muscles ease. For now, it seems I’m safe.
I reach for my phone to check the time, and I see a text from Jackson, which is an unexpected sight. He's not one to call or text, which makes the sudden message that much more unusual. His words are curt and straight to the point.
Jackass: We’re having a party tonight. Fix your fucking face and be presentable.
I sit the phone back down and let out a soft sigh as his words echo in my mind. "Asshole," I mumble under my breath, the bitterness lacing my words proof of the resentment simmering beneath the surface.
The morning light peeks through the narrow slit in the curtains, and the soft rays illuminate the room. I push myself up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my feet touch the cold floor. Each step toward the bathroom feels like a Herculean effort, but I continue, driven by the necessity of maintaining appearances.
In front of the mirror, I take in my reflection. My skin is pale, and the dark circles under my eyes are glaringly obvious. My fingers trace the contours of a bruise on my cheek, a bitter reminder of Jackson's temper. I reach for the concealer and skillfully dab it over the discolored skin. A bit of foundation and some blush, and the damage is masked, hidden beneath layers of makeup.
Next comes the outfit. I rummage through the closet and pull out a simple dress. The fabric is soft against my skin, and the fit is perfect. A matching pair of shoes and a touch of perfume complete the ensemble. Glancing in the mirror, I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks put together and confident, the complete opposite of the storm inside me.
Stepping out of the room, I slowly make my way downstairs to see the house buzzing with activity. Decorators rush from room to room, their arms loaded with streamers and decorations. Their faces are flushed with the bustle of their preparations. The staff is busy cleaning, their movements precise and efficient as they scrub and polish, ensuring every inch of the house is spotless.
The scent of cleaning supplies mixes with the faint smell of baking, a sign that the kitchen staff is hard at work. As I navigate through this whirl of activity, I can't help but feel a pang of envy at their obliviousness. At their ability to focus on the task at hand, undisturbed by the undercurrent of danger that seems to follow me.
As I venture closer to the kitchen, the rhythmic chopping of knives, the sizzling of pans, and the murmurs of the cooks fill the air. The heat from the oven hits me, the warm scent of roasting meat and caramelizing onions enveloping me. Peering inside, I'm taken aback by the sight. There are more people in the kitchen than I've ever seen in a sea of white hats and aprons, all bent over their tasks.
Countertops overflow with an assortment of ingredients. Stacks of fresh vegetables, slabs of meat, and bottles of spices are all around. Pots and pans simmering on the stove, each one harboring a different, tantalizing aroma. Judging by the amount of food being prepared, they're cooking enough to feed an army or, in this case, a house filled with guests.
I can't help but marvel at the precision and coordination on display. They navigate around each other, and their movements are so well-choreographed that it's almost like a dance. Despite the chaos, they're an impressive sight, their focus unwavering and their dedication evident. Spotting Mrs. Collins from the corner of my eye, I managed to slip away from the chaos to approach her. The older woman is standing by the counter, her tiny frame dwarfed by the massive cake taking shape in front of her.
"Mrs. Collins," I begin, forcing a smile onto my face. "What's the occasion?"
She beams at me as her eyes twinkle with excitement. "Oh, Miss Isabella! It's for Aurora's birthday."
I frown as my displeasure seeps into my expression. The last thing I want is to suffer the presence of Jackson's crude family and socialize with strangers who know nothing of the reality of my life. The anticipation of the oncoming night fills me with a sense of dread.
Mrs. Collins gives me a sympathetic look, patting my arm gently. "Why don't you go back to your room, dear? I'll bring you up some breakfast in a moment."
I nod, relieved to escape the bustling energy of the kitchen and retreat to the bedroom. True to her word, Mrs. Collins appears a few minutes later with a tray in her hands. The breakfast is simple. A soft-boiled egg, a couple of toast fingers, and a small bowl of mixed berries. A steaming cup of tea, the aroma of Earl Grey wafting from it, completes the meal. Despite my sour mood, I can't help but appreciate the comfort this simple meal provides.
As I pick at my food, Mrs. Collins moves towards the closet with her eyes scanning the myriad of clothing. "You'll need to look your best tonight, Miss Isabella," she says, her tone laced with a resignation that mirrors my own. She pulls out a few dresses, each more extravagant than the last.
I shake my head with my fingers absently tracing the edge of the eggshell. "I don't feel like dressing up tonight, Mrs. Collins."
She sighs, and her gaze softens. "I understand, dear. But you know it's necessary."
I push the tray away with the remains of my breakfast untouched. "I'll pick something out later, Mrs. Collins. I need some time alone."
She nods and steps away from the closet. "Of course, dear. Take all the time you need."
Standing in front of the mirror, I let my gaze travel over my reflection. I'm draped in a rich velvet dress, and the emerald color enhances my pale complexion. Its off-shoulder design exposes my collarbones, the material hugging my body before flaring out at the waist into a full skirt.
Matching emerald heels complete the ensemble, adding extra elegance. As I trace the delicate embroidery along the bodice, I can't help but appreciate the craftsmanship, yet the heavy fabric feels like a shackle, a beautiful façade for the farce that is my life.
The thought of spending the evening with Jackson's family fills me with apprehension. Behind closed doors, their disdain for me is evident. The snide comments, the rude dismissals, and the cold indifference.
Yet, in public, they masterfully masquerade as the ideal family. Their pretentious smiles never reach their eyes, and their words drip with insincere kindness.
It's a perverse game we play, each of us concealing our true feelings behind a mask of pleasantness. Their false pretenses fuel my resentment, a bitter pill I must swallow for the sake of appearances.
It's a cruel irony that the glitz and glamour of my attire tonight serve as a reminder of the ugliness of the reality I endure. Tonight, like every other night, I will put on a brave face and play my part in this grand charade.
Descending the grand staircase, the party unfolds beneath me like a display of wealth and affluence. A sea of elegantly dressed men and women mill about in the grand hall, their laughter and conversation blending seamlessly with the gentle strains of the orchestra's symphony. The room is bathed in a soft, golden light emanating from the elaborate chandeliers that hang from the high ceiling.
The long, heavy drapes are drawn back to reveal tall windows that overlook the sprawling estate, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow over the manicured gardens. Silver trays filled with champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres are circulated by uniformed waitstaff, their movements well-choreographed in a dance of servitude. Large, ornate mirrors along the walls reflect the magnificence of the room, amplifying the grandeur of the party.
However, beneath this veneer of elegance and class, under each carefully chosen word and a polite smile, lies a thick tension. A subtle currency of power and influence exchanging hands, discernible only to the most astute observer like me.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the night ahead. This is the world of the wealthiest elite. A world of ostentatious displays and meticulously crafted personas. As I step off the last stair and into the throng, I am once again reminded that this is a world where I must tread lightly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jackson, secluded in the kitchen area with a beautiful blonde playfully toying with his suit lapel. The sight of them is a bitter reminder of the discomfort I feel in this world of extravagance and deceit.
Yet, as soon I step into his line of sight, his demeanor changes abruptly. His eyes widen slightly, and a flicker of anger fills his eyes. With a sudden jerk, he pushes the blonde away, straightening his suit and clearing his throat.
A mask of nonchalance replaces his earlier smirk, but it does little to conceal his surprise at my presence. The sudden break in their intimate tête-à-tête leaves the blonde bewildered and her painted lips parting in a silent protest. The spectacle leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but I swallow my disdain before forcing a smile onto my face. Tonight, after all, is simply another act in this grand scheme.
"Hey!" the blonde says to his retreating back.
Jackson strides toward me with confident steps. As he gets closer, he scans my body, checking out what I'm wearing as he walks a circle around me. When he stops in front of me, he grabs my chin and turns my face from side to side, inspecting my makeup. Whenever Jackson comes too close, I feel myself tensing up. Somehow, I find myself searching for Damien. His presence, for reasons I can't fathom, feels like a safe harbor in the storm.
"This will do," he says. "You're presentable enough. Remember to keep your fucking mouth shut and just smile."
He grabs my arm, and we head toward the ballroom. I paste the biggest, fakest smile I can and start counting down the hours until this is over.
Jackson's grip on my arm is firm, almost mechanical, as he guides me through the crowd. We're not walking together. More like he's parading me around, proud of the trophy he's showing off. No one speaks to me. Their eyes glaze over me, a mere accessory to Jackson's grand presence. They laugh at his jokes and clink their glasses with his. Their fake laughter echoes in my ears. Whenever someone does address me, their words are empty, mere obligatory remarks about my dress or the weather. I respond with a curt nod and a pleasant smile, keeping my words as minimal as possible.
I excuse myself and head toward the bathroom to give myself a break. As I hurry through the hallway, I bump into Damien. Our eyes meet, and I feel a sudden warmth rush through me. He’s talking on the phone, and he looks angry.
“Have him waiting for me,” he says, looking directly at me. “I want him hanging. Only give him water. I’ll stop by in a few days. That should get him talking. If not, I’ll beat it out of him.”
My heart races as I stare into his eyes. My breath catches at seeing the darker side of Damien Blackhart. A side I’d never believed really existed. I look away, not wanting to confront him or delve deeper into the secrets he keeps hidden.
“Sorry,” I murmur before quickly moving away.
I have no idea why his presence affects me like this. In the bathroom, I heave a sigh of relief before checking my makeup to ensure no bruises are showing before heading back out to the party. I've become adept at this game of concealment, of revealing just enough to satisfy their curiosity but withholding enough to keep them at a distance. I carry on this charade, one nod, one smile at a time, counting the seconds until I can retreat from this pretentious spectacle.
Soon, we're nestled in the midst of his family, all eyes turned towards the guests. Damien begins to command the room as he saunters towards the center with a glass of champagne glinting in his hand. The room falls silent as a hush of expectancy infuses the air. His voice slices through the silence as smooth as velvet.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, his voice resonating with an authoritative yet warm tone. "Tonight is an extraordinary night, a night that we gather not just in celebration of wealth and prosperity, but more importantly, in celebration of family."
His gaze travels around the room, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes meet. His gaze is piercing, quietly assessing, and it sends an unexpected tremor down my spine. I swiftly look away, unwilling to acknowledge the unnerving effect his gaze has on me.
"We are honored to celebrate our dear Aurora," he continues, his eyes now focused on his beaming sister. "Beautiful, charismatic, and undeniably intelligent, she has made an unforgettable mark on our hearts. Here's to a future filled with joy, love, and endless possibilities."
As he raises his glass, the room erupts in applause. Yet throughout his toast, his eyes keep finding mine, quietly assessing, sending tremor after tremor down my spine. The kind of tremor I don't want to acknowledge because I don't want to find him attractive. However, during the laughter and applause, I find myself drawn to him, my heart pounding with a rhythm I dare not decipher.
The applause rings through the room as Damien finishes his speech, and we’re all escorted to our tables for dinner. I find myself seated with Jackson's family, tucked between Jackson on my left and an unfamiliar face on my right. The chatter around me becomes a white noise, a mere backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts storming in my mind.
Through out the dinner, I can't help but feel the weight of Damien's gaze on me, which causes goosebumps along my skin. His unreadable eyes seem to hide an ocean of secrets, drawing me in despite my best attempts to remain detached. For now, I focus on the clinking cutlery and murmur of voices around me, waiting for the evening to end, one second at a time.
"Hi, I'm Victor," the guy to my right says to me with a smile.
I stare for a moment because he's so handsome. His eyes are a smoky grey color, warm and inviting, a contrast to the cold scrutiny I've received so far. His hair is a tousled mop of chestnut brown, giving him an air of approachable casualness despite his immaculate suit. However, I can sense the danger that lurks beneath his smile.
He leans closer and smiles again. "This is where you introduce yourself. You're Isabella Blackhart, right?"
Hearing that name snaps me out of my thoughts of his handsomeness. "Just Isabella," I say before staring straight ahead.
Victor leans over again. "Are you enjoying the party," he asks.
I continue staring ahead, and when the waiter brings out the next course of food, I start eating, effectively ignoring him. He leaves me alone and starts talking to Damien. Meanwhile, Jackson's been ignoring me since we sat down. A few minutes later, Victor leans over again.
"How's the food?" he says casually. "I think my meat is overcooked."
"Please leave me alone," I hiss at him.
Jackson grabs my hand, and my head whips toward him, thinking I've pissed him off by talking to someone. His eyes are wide, and he's staring at me with his body stiff as a board. A weird sound comes out of his mouth, and I frown.
"Jackson, let go of me," I say, quiet enough that only he can hear.
I try tugging my hand away, but he's got a tight grip on me. It's starting to hurt, and I feel my hand going numb. He's shaking, and another weird sound comes out of his throat.
"I said let go," I tell him a little louder this time before pushing him away.
He falls out of his chair and starts convulsing on the ground, making gasping noises. I sit there, shocked at the scene before me. Everything seems to happen in slow motion, but it happens fast as Victor pushes me out of the way and starts administering aid.
The room erupts into chaos around me. Shrieks of panic echo against the gilded walls, piercing the once harmonious atmosphere. A sea of party-goers scramble in every direction, their faces masks of fear and confusion. The finely dressed servers are lost in the chaos, leaving trays of untouched food abandoned on their tables. Jackson's mother and sister are at his side almost instantly, their faces draining of color.
I hear his mother's high-pitched cries slicing through the air as her hands flutter helplessly over his convulsing body. Her tears leave streaks of mascara down her face, and despite the terror of the situation, I find myself momentarily hypnotized by the black streams that distort her carefully applied makeup.
Jackson's sister clings onto their mother as her own sobs blend into the chaos. Damien, who until now had been the epitome of charismatic charm, morphs into a commanding presence at the head of the room. His face is etched with determination and anger. He bellows out orders, his words a clear beacon through the chaos.
"There! Clear a path!" he roars, pointing to a group of men in black suits who I hadn't noticed before. Their presence is intimidating. They spring into action, forming a wall against the onlookers and creating a clear path towards Jackson.
Despite the terror that grips the room, I find myself rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the nightmarish scene unfolding before me. I clench and unclench my hands, the sensation grounding me during the pandemonium. The room spins around me, yet in the chaos, I feel a strange calmness seep into my bones. One second at a time, I tell myself, one second at a time.
I watch in stunned silence as an older man walks in with a bag, kneels, and begins to appraise Jackson's condition. His hands move with a mechanical precision that suggests he's done this multiple times before. My heart skips a beat as he pulls out a white sheet from his bag, a body bag.
"Move back!" commands another man, his voice barely cutting through the chaos. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, creating a path for the men carrying Jackson’s lifeless body. The sight of his still body in the body bag is a horrifying sight that sears itself into my mind.
Victor steps back from the scene with his face twisted in anger. He walks over to Damien, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"He's gone, Damien," he says, his voice barely a whisper. "Jackson is dead."