Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
I breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Thank you, Dylan.”
His footsteps retreated and I sank down, my legs no longer willing to hold up the weight that grew heavier by the moment. I still clutched the contract to my chest. The infernal sheets of paper threatened to burn me down to nothing more than cold cinders.
I flipped the pages open and stared at the swirls and curves of ink. They had no meaning in the semi-darkness of my room. They were only drawings on a cave wall that told a story of violence and degradation. The elegant curlicues hid nothing from me. The words were stark, cruel—just like the man who’d written them.
I dropped the pages as if they scorched my fingers. The agreement fluttered to the floor and lay there as if it were just harmless paper. I knew better. I pulled my knees up and rested my head on them. How could I sign over my life to a man who I knew would hurt me? I had no doubt of it. The way he’d watched me in the car, as if I was a plaything, still haunted me. I’d been fearful of him before, of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I still couldn’t explain it, but now I was terrified.
Tears welled and leaked down my nose before landing on my knee and rolling down my leg. I sat like that for a long time. Minutes, hours. However long it took for me to go through my memories of my father. How strong he’d been when my mother had checked out of this life. How much stronger he had to be when I’d tried to do the same thing. Could I let him go to his death, all the while knowing I could have saved him?
One year. It wasn’t so long. I’d wasted a year recovering from my suicide attempt. Would it be such a loss for me to disappear for one year? I’d never graduated college. My mother took her life the summer before I was to attend NYU. My life was put on hold indefinitely. Then Dad had decided to move us here so we could get on with our lives. Dylan’s mother helped ease my father’s pain for a time, though I withered away, locked in my room, painting dark scenes of even darker thoughts until it all became too much.
I shuddered at the memory of what I’d done. I’d vowed to never be weak again, to never let myself get to the point of wanting the oblivion badly enough to run headlong into it. I couldn’t go to that place again. And just as I refused to rush to a dark fate, I refused to send my father to one equally grim.
I stood, my back stiff from resting against the unforgiving door. My decision made, I dragged a carry-on bag from my closet and began packing clothes, not caring whether they were fashionable. The basics would do—shirts, shorts, jeans, bras, socks, panties. I scooped up some toiletries from my bathroom and snagged the photo of my mother and me from my nightstand. I changed into a pair of jeans, a dark t-shirt, and a navy cardigan to protect against the chill in the fall air. After making quick work of my belongings, I pondered whether I should leave a note.
It tore at my heart not to say any goodbyes. I pulled out my stationery with the swirling ‘S’ along the top. I stood for a while with the pen poised over the page. My hand shook. There was so much to say. Or maybe there was nothing. The pen clattered from my fingertips.
I didn’t trust myself. If I put what I felt down on paper, my resolve could waver. My father would know where I went, anyway. He wasn’t a fool on any count. I only hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid to try and save me. He had no chance. The look on Vinemont’s face when he’d proffered his bargain was one of certainty. If what I’d read about him was true—his family owning the largest sugar factories in America and some of the most expansive sugar cane plantations in a number of other countries—he had ways to keep my father at a distance. He and that snake Judge Montagnet would no doubt see to it.
I opened my bottom drawer and reached up for the knife I’d stashed there. I’d taped it to the bottom of the second drawer so that I was the only one who’d ever know where it was. It was the same blade I’d used on myself. My blood no longer stained the metal, but I knew parts of me were still there, ingrained in the steel. I shoved it into a side pocket of my bag, hiding it among some toiletries and underwear.