41. Renee

My life has never been a fairytale. Despite the family money and the last name on my birth certificate, I”ve never been what I”d call a classic Disney princess.

So the fact I”m now locked in Deacon”s bedroom with no phone and no food is highly ironic. You know, in an ‘If I think too hard about my state in life, I will have a breakdown that not even a tub of ice cream can fix” kind of way. The only thing missing from this princess-in-a-tower scene is a snarling dragon to keep the knights away—and even then, I think Deacon might do a pretty good impression of a fire-breathing reptile.

I refuse to get in his bed, which is about the only act of rebellion I have left. Instead, I lie on the floor, curled into a tight little ball. I”ve contemplated making a run for it through the balcony doors, but that Mission: Impossible escape plan has a few flaws in it.

One: Deacon”s bedroom is on the third floor.

Two: The only thing at the bottom of the window is a paved walkway. No smooth landings in sight.

Three: I”m still very much pregnant.

So I continue to lie on the floor in a miserable puddle of self-hatred.

The one plus is that Deacon hasn”t returned since throwing me in here. Occasionally, I”ll hear movement outside the door, but no one comes in. The walls are thick enough that, while I can hear there”s something going on, I don”t get a clear picture.

Couldn”t be Prince Charming, could it, come to rescue me?

The temptation to yell and get the attention of whoever is on the other side is high. But the reasonable part of me that feels provoking Deacon any further is a bad idea takes priority.

He”s crazy enough to lock his own fiancée in a bedroom.

So what else is he willing to do if I piss him off even more?

I roll from my side to my back and stare at the ceiling. It’s high and arched, with exposed wooden beams, very Spanish Revival of him. It’s kinda similar to my own childhood bedroom. I can practically hear Evanescence playing in the background as I scribble in my diary about how much I hate my life.

Emo? Yes.

But reasonable? Extremely.

Suddenly, Deacon”s door bursts open. I shuffle to sit up, but Deacon is thoughtful enough to do that for me as he charges forward and yanks me onto my feet.

”Bit dramatic to be laid out on the floor,” he snaps.

When I”m upright, I yank my arm out of his hold. “‘Dramatic’ is locking your fiancée in a room like you”re some crazy, wicked stepfather.” I hold my chin up, displaying more confidence than I actually feel. ”This shit is a crime, you know. I could press charges.”

Deacon scoffs. ”Don”t flatter yourself. You don”t have the money or the resources—although, between the two of us, you”re the one actually acquainted with law enforcement.”

What a bastard. I fold my arms over my chest and maintain distance between us. “Are you at least letting me leave?”

As I ask the question, I notice a bag in his hand. It”s something from a boutique in downtown LA called Remark. It’s trendy, hot, absurdly expensive. IG model-type stuff. In circles like my parents’ or Deacon”s, the inflated price tags aren’t enough to save Remark from getting labeled as gilded trash. Typically, Deacon wouldn”t get caught dead there.

So what gives?

He notices my line of sight and laughs. ”Let you leave? Hardly. I”ve had your things brought into this wing. We”ll be sharing it now. And to celebrate the next step of our union, I thought I’d take you out—so I got you a new outfit.”

Deacon tosses the bag onto the bed. He stands off to the side, his expression expectant as he juts his chin toward it in a silent invitation for me to open it up. He”d almost look like a doting husband, excited to dress his woman in a new outfit, if I didn”t know better.

He”s smug. And “smug” never means well when it comes to Deacon.

”I don”t want to celebrate anything with you. You don”t even actually like me. And believe me, the feeling is mutual.”

Deacon gets a dangerous glint in his eyes. He clamps down once more on my forearm, which is still bruised and sore from his most recent round of assholery. I grit my teeth to hold in the pained whimper my body wants to release.

I won”t give Deacon the satisfaction of knowing he”s hurt me.

He slings me toward the bed. ”Open your gift, Renee.”

It”s not a suggestion.

I give him a glare, but he’s standing between me and the only way out of this prison cell. For now, it seems wiser to go along to get along.

With a sigh, I turn toward the bed. I handle the bag like it”s radioactive and peel it open with the tips of my fingers. The material of whatever garment is inside is crinkly and shiny. It”s garishly loud and I can”t help but feel like Deacon shopping at Remark has a sinister second purpose he’s not saying.

When I pull it out, I realize just how right I am.

The color of the dress is gorgeous; I”ll give it that. It”s a deep, burgundy red that screams femme fatale.

Unfortunately, that”s the only thing going for it.

There”s hardly any fabric, for one. To call it a “dress” is a generous overstatement. What”s there would strategically cover any risky bits, but even then, skin is clearly more the focus of this piece than anything else.

I hold it up, mortified. Deacon has always spoken about having a woman on his arm with some class. This is anything but.

”I”m not wearing this.”

”No? Do you not think it”s fitting?” he drawls. ”I think it suits you. I think it”s just the thing I want to show my fiancée off in. It”s not my usual style, but you”ve inspired me.”

“‘Inspired you’?” I spit out.

”Live a little. Be rebellious. That”s what you want, isn”t it?”

”I want you to fuck off.”

Deacon laughs. ”But if I did that, you wouldn”t get the chance to come with me to a very special event I”ve lined up for us tonight.”

My eyes narrow. ”There was nothing in the calendar for today.”

”Oh, I know. This was something else I cooked up. A little bit of spontaneity. I have you to thank, actually—you’re the one who gave me the idea.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two slivers of paper. At first, I have no idea what they are…

Until I see the branding on the side of one of the papers.

They”re tickets.

”Deacon—”

”Get ready, darling. We”re going to a Firebirds game. I got us the best seats in the house.”