Chapter 31

I'm standing in front of a nondescript cement building on the outskirts of Bronx with Belle, who's tugging the worn sleeve of my black shirt, her eyes darting around and looking at the questionable neighborhood filled with colorful graffiti and barred windows. The sun has already disappeared behind the clouds, making the entire atmosphere gloomier and more desolate. A breeze flutters by, blowing up paper bags, random wrappers, and other trash on the sidewalk.

"Are you sure this is the place?" she whispers, even though there aren't many people around us save for a few teenagers smoking weed outside the building and a scary-looking man standing like a sentry at the entrance.

"I think so? I checked the address Taylor sent two times already. She told us to keep an open mind."

Taylor also told us to dress in clothes we can ruin. I have no idea what she and Grace are up to.

Seconds later, the door flies open and Taylor pokes her head out. Her long, dark hair is tied in thick braids, her eyes startling with the grunge makeup she has on.

She waves us over. "Come in, girls. Don't be wimps. This place is safe, trust me."

Belle clutches my hand tightly as I drag her inside the building with me, finding Grace and Taylor standing there, dressed in camo clothing, like they're about to storm into a war zone.

"What are we doing here?"

The place is equally creepy inside, the cement walls decorated with more graffiti, the florescent lighting flickering on and off. The randomness of this location momentarily distracts me from my emotions over Ryland.

Grace waves her hand around. "A few friends in our old neighborhood told us about this place. It's all the rage online these days."

"Ha. Rage. I see what you did there," Taylor snickers.

Grace grins. "This is a rage room, or rage building, to be more exact. We pay a small fee to rent a room filled with crap and you can throw things, damage anything, and just vent out your frustrations in a safe and healthy manner. Better than bottling them up inside."

I gape. "This was what you meant when you said you had my back earlier? I wanted to talk, not inflict violence."

Tay links her arm with mine and leads me to a door. "It was more my idea. I think ice cream and crying are fine and all that, but sometimes throwing a flat screen against the wall really hits the spot. I think this is one of those times. That fucker. We can vent and then discuss options."

My mind reels from everything as we enter the room, which is dimly lit by a single florescent lamp and resembles an indoor scrap yard. The cement walls here are also streaked with paint, hastily scribbled curse words and other artwork. Broken furniture such as a slashed sofa, a small wooden table missing a leg, and other fragile items like vases and bowls litter the room.

Grace hands us each a plastic suit, which can be a costume out of an apocalyptic movie, and a pair of goggles. "Suit up!"

Five minutes later, we're decked out in safety gear, and I look at Taylor. "Now what?"

"Pick up anything, throw it at the wall! Pretend it's Ryland."

I gnaw on my lip and pick up a small ceramic cup. My fingers tremble, but my feet stay rooted.

"Like this!"

Smash.

Glass shatters against the wall as Taylor hurls a vase at a shadowed corner, all the while yelling, "Fuck you, older brother, for hurting my best friend. I can hate you and love you at the same time!"

"Yes!" More crashing and smashing as Grace's eyes take on a feral glint.

She grabs a golf club from somewhere and whacks at a sad-looking table. "And Steven, I love you, but you hurt my fucking heart when you disappeared, leaving me to worry sick about you. Thank God you came to your senses, but I still have residual anger!"

My eyes widen and I gape at the Peyton sisters, who are busy flinging all types of crap at the walls, wreaking havoc and destruction in the tiny room.

Then, next to me, Belle lets out a growl and chucks an old toaster to the floor. "And I hate arranged marriages. It's archaic, it's barbaric, it's fucking ridiculous. I hate it. I. Hate. It!"

Our heads swivel toward our elegant friend, finding her face red with fury, her sleek black hair swinging wildly in the air as she stomps on some broken glass, her chest huffing and puffing from exertion.

"What arranged marriage?" Grace asks, the golf club still in her hands.

Belle freezes like a deer in the headlights and blows out a breath. "Damn, that felt good. And today is not about me, it's about Millie, but long story short, my parents are looking for suitors for me. It's the freakin' twenty-first century and I'm an independent woman, but they won't listen. I don't need a man in my life. I can have a fulfilling career, have babies, save the animals, and do it all on my own. I don't want to talk about it."

I walk up to her and give her a tight hug. "We're here for you too."

She nods and cocks her brow at me. "Millie, you've been holding onto that mug like it's your newborn baby. Let it out. The rage. The hurt. It feels really good."

I stare at the mug in my hand and think about Ryland—his sinful eyes, his growly voice, the way he plunders my mouth like he can't get enough, then how he's acting like an utter asshole and pushing me away, ignoring what we have between us, how he says the damnedest things just to scare me off, and…

How he's going to fuck another woman to get over me.

Tears spring into my eyes and my chest clenches. My pulse kicks rapidly in my ears, my skin feeling hot and feverish. I hurl the mug against the wall, the loud shatter satisfying to my ears.

"You asshole! You think I'm just going to give up?"

I grab a bat and swing it at a TV, shattering the screen.

"I'm not! And you're going to regret this because I'm an awesome person and you won't meet another woman like me, you chauvinistic pig!" My screams echo in the room as the girls cheer and yell out obscenities over the idiotic Ryland Anderson.

"I can make my own damn decisions!" A mirror shatters into a thousand pieces.

"Life isn't black and white!" I tear out an old dictionary, even though my heart pinches with guilt because books are my babies.

Sweat slicks my hair and dampens my clothes as I use all my energy and power to wreak havoc in the room.

"I hate being the caregiver. The nice girl. I want to be angry like Adrian and sad like Dad. I hate how life is unfair." My voice cracks as wetness seeps down my cheeks, and I belatedly realize I'm crying.

My arms are achy and tired, my voice is getting hoarse from yelling. I grab some random object next to me and chuck it against the wall, letting go years-worth of tension I've been bottling up inside, the release so cathartic, so tiring, it's emotionally exhausting in the most satisfying way.

"I don't want to be in control all the time," I sob. "I want to let go and feel what I feel without pretending. I want Mom to come back."

My face is a mess of tears and snot, but I don't care, because my heart is torn open, the ugly poison pooling inside finally pouring out, the corrosive acid spreading to my muscles, my fingers, to every cell of my body.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

My chest feels like it's cleaved in half, my eyes heavy and swollen, my throat on fire. Suddenly exhausted, both mentally and physically, I slide down against the wall, sit on the dirty floor, and curl up into a fetal position before burying my face in my hands.

The girls gather around me, their voices thick with emotions. They too have been crying along with me. I feel their gentle hands and warm hugs, and a few kisses in my sticky hair.

"I'm so proud of you, Millie," Grace whispers. I look up, finding her dazzling eyes bright with tears.

"You're a damn fighter." Taylor swallows, her eyes looking suspiciously red as well.

"A badass. An utter badass," Belle echoes their sentiments as she pulls me to her side.

Minutes pass and the adrenaline ekes out of me. Lethargy sets in. I don't need ice cream or alcohol. I'm all out of tears and energy. I just want to take a hot shower, curl up in my bed, and don't wake up for a very long time.

"You know, I have an idea about Ryland," Taylor murmurs as we stare at the ceiling.

"What idea?" Grace asks.

"I mean, from what Millie told us, he's essentially trying to get over her by finding someone like her to have sex with. So, it's not really going to work since he's using faux-Millie to get over real-Millie."

Taylor sits up, excitement seeping into her voice. "Grace, the scenes in Noire…they're with random people, right?"

Where is she going with this? I stare at the sisters as they look at each other, evil smiles forming on their faces.

Grace nods. "Yes, they are usually anonymous for the primal scenes. You can request people you know, but most hunters prefer strangers. It's part of the high, chasing an unknown prey." She pauses and her eyes take on a sharp glint. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Tay?"

Tay nods eagerly. "Is it possible, you think?"

"I'll have to call Sofia, or maybe even Elias. They run the Rose floors, you know, but they liked me when I worked for them there, so they can make this happen if I ask."

I lift my hands up. "What are you guys talking about?" Belle nods beside me, looking as equally confused.

Grace swivels toward me, her voice serious. "Millie, how badly do you want Ryland?"

My injured heart still skips several beats at the mention of him.

"A lot," I whisper, "And I know he wants me too. For some reason, he just won't—"

"If I have a way to get you into Noire on Monday night," Grace begins, a hardened glint in her eyes.

Realization dawns in my mind. "You mean be the girl he's chasing?"

Taylor nods alongside her sister. "He's looking for a random person who looks like you. You obviously fit all the physical requirements. What if you show up instead? He never said that person couldn't be you."

"That's genius. Holy shit, that's genius. You're an evil genius, Tay," Belle whispers in awe. "What do you think, Millie?"

My heart, all bloodied and torn up, throws itself around my rib cage, having been resurrected, and my mind is a swirl of thoughts, ranging from no way this is insane, to what if…what if this is what'll finally tip him over?

I stammer, "I-I need time to think about it. I can tell you on Saturday after your event, Grace."

"There's not a lot of time between Saturday and Monday, but anything is possible at The Orchid. I mean, there will be exceptions to be made, I'm sure. I'll need to call Sofia later to make arrangements and to make sure your brother doesn't find out." Grace scrunches her brows and walks through all the things she'll be looking into.

"Then there are health checks and the blood tests all companions, escorts, and patrons of the Rose floors are subjected to. There's also a detailed questionnaire for you to fill out with your hard limits, safe words, and gestures…" Grace rambles on about the logistics.

And for the first time today since I overheard Ryland's conversation on the phone in his office, the tightness in my chest loosens, and I can finally breathe.

Visions of him chasing me, his focus solely on me, uninhibited, wild, have me clenching my thighs. My pulse ratchets up.

Will he finally understand I very much want this, and I have no regrets?