5. Hannah

Hannah

T he Christmas charity gala is being held at one of the most prestigious hotels in LA and tonight, it seems everyone, including their brother, came out to support the cause.

The cause being . . . I don’t know, but it beats sitting around in Missy’s angry cloud of hate all night.

My jaw is sore and though I applied concealer like a face mask in the car to cover the red scratches from Missy’s nails, the raised skin still shows through if you look close enough. The driver, Paulo, is kind enough not to ask.

He knows my mother.

He knows Missy, too.

He and Missy even had a tryst a few years back and I remember him panicking because he thought he was going to get fired when he cut it off.

Unfortunately, I think losing his job would have been better.

Somehow, Missy snuck into his apartment and added hair removal cream to his new girlfriend’s conditioner. It completely ruined her pretty black curls and her head had to be shaved because of all the bald patches.

That was when I realized my sister could be pure evil if she really put her mind to it. Vindictive.

“Need me to escort you in, Ms. Gaines?” Paulo asks from the front seat of the Bentley.

Since I’m arriving late, I didn’t have to sit through the insufferable limo drive with my mother and her team. Even if they weren’t there, Michael still would have been and I just need space from him right now.

“No, thank you, Paulo. I can walk in by myself.” As soon as I say it, my door is opened and one of Mom’s security is staring down at me. “Or so I thought.”

I let out a deep sigh, forcing my best face and take the hand extended to me.

And so it begins.

“See you later, Paulo.”

Four men are waiting to escort me inside. Not unusual in my mother’s line of work. Back in Sacramento, we’re surrounded by security constantly.

But LA is my “safe spot”. I can breathe—which is ironic considering the city I’m speaking about—without having to worry about someone watching me like I’m the Declaration of Independence. Here lately, though, with my mother spending more time here, it’s starting to become Sacramento 2.0.

Sometimes I feel like a marionette doll, being controlled from all directions. Which dress to wear, which shoes would look classy and chic instead of trashy. What to say, how to walk. When to smile and when to be completely devoid of expression.

Sometimes, I even dream about going back to college. Back when I had the freedom to breathe and do whatever girls my age do.

I’m twenty-three, but I feel older. Like a forty-two-year-old married and kept woman whose husband runs around behind her back and commands her every waking moment.

Just like Monica Parker.

I’ve seen her. The wife to the other-woman scenario my sister is playing out. On the outside, you wouldn’t notice the cracks in her porcelain exterior. I know, on the inside, it’s broken and bloody— a mess from her husband’s betrayal.

She hates me by proxy and though I would love to speak to her, just once, to see what she’s really like, I know no one’s getting through that cool exterior.

It’s no wonder Mason hates his stepfather so much.

Somehow, I feel like if I married Michael and accepted this fate, I would end up just like Monica. Internally tattered. Broken.

Of course, there’s something darker where Marcus Parker is concerned. I could see it in the caustic glint in Mason’s eyes the night I asked him about it. I haven’t seen him since, but I reckon he still hates me for prying into his internal struggles, almost as much as I hate myself for bothering to care.

I wish I was like Missy. Cold. Passionately unfeeling, if that’s even a thing. But I’m not. I care too much and that will be my downfall. Mark my words.

“Ms. Gaines.” The doorman tips his hat at me. For a moment, I wonder how he knows my name and then I remember the four huge men surrounding me like I’m a priceless jewel.

Oh, yeah. My mother’s the governor.

God, don’t let her find out I forgot. I’ll have to hear her speech about paving the way for women in politics and changing this state for the good.

As if she’s any different from the last governor.

The hotel lobby is filled with familiar faces. Men and women dressed in their best gowns and tuxes to show off their wealth for the photographers to capture for the less fortunate. Because that’s what we are, right? The unobtainable, used to remind the average citizen that while they may succeed, they will never be on our level.

It’s disgusting.

“I have to use the restroom,” I announce loudly to my four bodyguards and none of them make a move.

I attempt to step away from them, but they only follow, silent and expressionless behind dark glasses as if they’re the secret service and I’m the president of the United States.

“I need to change my tampon,” I lie and one at least has the good sense to grimace slightly at the connotation. “Do you really need to follow?”

“We go where you go, Miss Gaines.”

Of course. Who am I to demand privacy while using the restroom?

“Fine,” I grumble under my breath, “but you aren’t coming in with me.”

Somehow, I manage to break myself free from my throngs of man-muscle and slip quietly into the bathroom. Alone.

I let out a sigh of relief, sinking back against the door and closing my eyes.

“Tough crowd?”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of the voice. I hadn’t expected anyone else to be in here. Stupid, I know.

Bailey Carpenter, oldest sister of the Carpenter bunch stands at the sink in front of me, fixing what looks to be black mascara streaks under her eyes. She smiles humorlessly at the grim expression on my face.

“We really are all alike, aren’t we?”

I don’t know what she means by that, but I did hear about her fiancé and the atrocities he committed against her recently. Of course, some of those had to be rumors, but just how deep was the truth buried under that fake smile?

“Come here,” she beckons, pulling concealer out of the small Versace clutch lying on the counter. When I don’t move, she cocks a delicate brow. “You missed a spot.”

Slowly, I approach her and she pushes me back against the counter and raises my chin to the light. She’s taller than I am. Older, by only a couple years. Being in this proximity to her, my sister’s vengeful hate for the three sisters comes back to me. I always thought it was because of Marcus, but maybe it’s something else.

Bailey carries herself in a way that the outside world wouldn’t understand. The constant need to be “on”, lest the world catch you having a normal human emotion. It’s what’s expected of women in our position and something Missy never mastered.

“Sisters can be such bitches, can’t they?” Bailey asks softly, carefully applying concealer to the scratches on my face.

At this proximity, I can see the massive resemblance between her and Mason. The light eyes, the high cheekbones. The sort of parental authority both seem to carry in themselves.

“Mine seems to have lost her mind,” I whisper. I don’t even know why I tell her. Bailey owes me nothing. In fact, our families couldn’t be more at odds than the Hatfields and McCoys now that my sister’s affair has reached the surface.

“Did you tell your mother?” I can tell by the glimmer of displeasure in her eyes, she knows as well as I do, it would do nothing.

“I can’t run off to my mother every time my sister and I get into a fight.”

“Perhaps,” Bailey says, patting the concealer into my face with a towel from the sink. “Though, do you really think she’ll stop here?”

“We have security—”

“Security that will stop her from shoving you down the stairs? Or throwing a toaster in your bubble bath? Perhaps she’ll just poison your food.”

Fuck. My lip wobbles and I’m disgusted with myself. Mom hates it when we cry. You would think raising two daughters, she would be used to it by now, but as a kid, the more tears you shed the worse the punishment was.

“A word of advice,” Bailey murmurs, sealing her concealer back up and sliding it back in her clutch. “You sister’s a loose cannon. And violent. Get out while you still can. Before Parker sinks his claws into you, too.”

“He’s a creep,” I grumble, shuddering at the thought of a very sweaty Marcus Parker thrusting over me.

Bailey shrugs, heading toward the door. “This is LA. They all are.”

“Bailey,” I call and she stops, hand on the door handle. “Are you okay?”

She turns back to me, tears glistening in her eyes, but they never fall.

“Of course.”

And with that, she’s gone.

I suck in a deep breath, willing my hands to stop shaking and wash them in the sink before heading back toward the door.

It’s time to face the music. My mother will undoubtedly be pissed I didn’t manage to coerce Missy into coming, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.

I suck up my pride, force the fake smile to my face, and head toward the door, stopping dead in my tracks when I open it to the dark, heavy gaze of my mother.

Well, shit.

“Come.”

“Mom—”

In a flash, she reaches for me, her hand gripping the crook of my neck so hard her fingernails dig into the exposed flesh there.

“Make a scene.”

Fuck.

I swallow my fear and let her lead me like I’m marching from the Tower of London to meet the executioner.

I didn’t do as she told me.

Now I have to face the consequences.

Mom leads me to a room off the back hallway. A theatre of sorts. The only light illuminates from the dim sconces on the wall, casting everything in shadows.

“Make sure no one comes in here,” she murmurs to one of her guards, her face expressionless as she shuts the door behind her with a final click.

Now all the sound that’s left is the faint whir of the air conditioner and the dull, muffled sound of the party beyond this room.

We’re completely alone. Nothing good ever comes from being completely alone with my mother.

“Hannah,” she says, lighting up a cigarette, even though we all know she can’t smoke inside. “When I give you instructions, what are you to do?”

I swallow over the lump in my throat, my hands knitting together in front of me.

“Follow them.” I’m ashamed of how small my voice sounds.

“Correct.” She nods, taking a long drag until the end of her cigarette glows cherry red. “So why didn’t you bring your sister, like I told you?”

“Sh—she didn’t want to come,” I stammer, anxiety bubbling inside me. “I—I tried.”

In an instant, she snatches my jaw in her hand almost as forcefully as Missy had.

You know, for as much as they fight, they sure are a lot alike. Both fucking psychotic.

“You know damn good and well when I say bring her, I mean force her if that’s what it fucking takes. It wasn’t a suggestion.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice clouded with the tears brimming in my eyes. “She threw me on the ground. S—scratched me. She wouldn’t come.”

“I don’t give a shit what she did. You are to be presentable. Wherever I want. Whenever I want. That’s what comes with this job, Hannah. Or do you not understand?”

I’m the governor of California, my brain mocks.

“I’m the goddamned governor of California,” she spits and under different circumstances, I would laugh at the irony. “If I can’t control two girls, how will people expect me to control a state?”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, flinching from the pain as she digs her nails down to my jawbone. “I’m sorry.”

She stares at me for a moment, and I think, with all manner of sickness bubbling in my stomach, that she’s going to hit me.

Instead, she releases me.

And then her hand slaps across my face so hard, I taste blood in my mouth. I stumble, managing to grip the back of a chair, my vision growing spotty for a moment, before the feeling passes, leaving behind the burning sting of a sliced lip.

There’s a sickening moment of roaring silence.

Then a throat clears from the shadows.

Mom’s eyes go wide, but when Mason Carpenter steps out from a spot by the window, her gaze narrows to small dark slits.

“The funny thing about abusers,” Mason says, voice cold as winter and eyes dangerously dark in the dimly lit room. “Is no one ever thinks it’s a woman.”

Mom doesn’t say anything for a moment, instead choosing to smooth down her already perfect hair, instead.

Something passes between them. A warning. I can’t tell from who, but the tension is so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Mason steps up beside me, towering over both my mother and me in a suit that looks like it was hand-crafted for his body. His scent envelopes me, bringing about an odd sense of safety.

My mother ignores him completely, turning back to me with a simmering rage behind her blue eyes. “Go home. Don’t let me see your face before I leave tomorrow.”

She turns for the door, only stopping before she opens it, sinister gaze flicking back to Mason.

“Oh, and don’t forget to take out the trash.”

And with that, she’s gone, leaving me still clutching my cheek as the blood oozes from my lip.

Her ring. It cut me.

I hate it here.

I need to go home. I need to hide in my room with the door locked, away from Missy. Away from Mom. Away from Michael and his expectations. I need a bandage and a bottle of wine.

I need to be alone.

Mason doesn’t say anything, though he turns to me with that same cold indifference he’d shown my mother. He takes my chin in his hand, softer than I would have ever thought possible out of a man his size, and lifts it to face him. Something dark and caustic passes over his gaze, before he quickly snuffs it out and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” I say softly while he dabs at the blood on my lip. “My mother . . . she’ll make your life hell.”

“Seems she’s already doing that enough, for you.”

I swallow, my throat constricting when he shoves the handkerchief back in his pocket and steps away from me.

I don’t miss the way his hand clenches to a fist before he shoves it in his pocket.

“Come. I’ll drive you home.”

I almost open my mouth to argue, but what’s the point? For some reason, I would rather be with Mason than anyone on my mother’s team right now.

I follow him out the door and through the back hallway to the alleyway out the back door. He stays close to me as he walks me to the parking garage and toward his truck. The same truck he took me home in months ago.

The ride home is silent, save for the rock music playing quietly in the background. Mason seems to be lost in thought, but so am I.

When he pulls through the gate at home, I realize I haven’t said a single word the entire way home.

“Thank you for the ride. Seems you’re always saving me,” I chuckle, though it lacks any humor.

Unfortunately, Mason doesn’t seem to find it funny, either.

“Give me your phone,” he murmurs darkly, holding out his hand. I open my mouth to protest and he cocks a brow.

Fine.

I place it in his hand, ashamed at the tremor that moves through mine when I do. He notices, but he doesn’t say anything, typing something I can’t see.

“My number. In case you find yourself without a ride again.” The way he says it, I know he’s not talking about taking me home.

I open my mouth to speak, but I have nothing to say. And then, I realize what Bailey meant.

We really are all alike, aren’t we?

Silent. Me, Bailey, Mila, Savannah, every other woman our age in this position. Even Monica Parker. We’re silent in the face of the people that control our lives. In my case, my mother. We put on a pretty face, disguise our battle scars, and pretend our lives are as perfect as the media makes them out to be.

It’s a disgrace.

“Goodnight, Hannah.”

I swallow.

Guess that’s my cue to leave.

I climb out of his truck, stumbling on my heels ungracefully before I right myself.

“Goodnight, Mason.”