T W O

Tears fell down my cheeks and I brushed them away angerly. It had been innocent fun at the start, a dangerous distraction I craved. I used it to escape the golden cage my parents had endowed.

But now, it was more.

It wasn't the danger or the distraction I needed.

It was him.

A stranger, my demon, my fucking nightmare. I knew nothing about him, except those dead eyes, those I'd memorised to the backs of my own eyelids.

He violated me in all the best ways, degrading me without giving me even a shred of his own skin in return and like the silly little girl I am, I let him. Let him toy with my pussy, mind and heart.

Did it make me sick to enjoy his little fascination with me, even when I knew he reeked of death and sin. The stranger had played with me in almost every way, fucking me with anything and everything, just not with what I wanted most.

Him.

I threw my hairbrush against the mirror, watching it shatter.

Time to grow some self-preservation and fucking dignity, Dahlia.

Dressing in an oversized shirt, I grabbed my bag and left the almost pitch-black room. I'd be locking the fucking thing next time. My muscles burned with fatigue as I raced through the theatre, needing fresh air as his shadows followed me.

Bursting through the back doors and into the parking lot, I let the cool air wash over my skin. Breathing out, I made my way to my car, pausing only to flinch at the smiley face drawn into the condensation.

"Fuck you," I said to the frosty night and the darkness, hoping he could hear the venom in my voice.

It felt empowering to swear out loud, my mother would have a heart attack if she heard such crude words leaving my body. Twenty-three years of being her perfect little dancer.

She'd told me they'd never take me seriously, not when I was a few shades darker than most of the industry, she said it was why she was so hard on me.

From the moment my feet touched the ground, she had me in points. Sixteen-hour days of brutal training, and when it wasn't dancing it was being a beautiful piece of art that laughed and smiled on cue, crossed her legs and dressed like the perfect woman. Displayed me from the age of seventeen to potential husbands.

Maybe that's where the fascination with everything wrong came from, I needed the release so badly. Reversing out of the parking lot, I shined my headlights on high beam into the street opposite, if my stranger was there, I hoped it blinded him.

We lived in a gated estate, with prestigious mansions lining perfectly manicured lawns and roads. It made me sick.

I park outside our residence, one of the house hands takes hold of my car keys and bag. They passed the keys to one of my father's men, who would park my car in the lock-up garage.

I always found it funny, how I was never alone, someone was always trailing behind me, never leaving me entirely and yet I'd never felt more unseen or isolated.

Maids moved around me as I walked into the kitchen, placing a smoothie on the island followed by a bowl of fruit. The next maid let me know my ice bath was ready upstairs.

They tended to me like fine China because I was an asset, one that would be married off for some sort of financial gain to the Valmont bloodline. I thanked them, numbly.

Walking through the eerily quiet house, I entered my mother's living room, it was opposite my father's office. Like the good wife she was she sat there in her polished attire and planned the next gala. "How was your show, Dahlia?" She asked upon my arrival.

Maybe you wouldn't need to ask if you showed up to one. Instead of telling her exactly what I thought, I replied, "It was great."

"That's great dear, now head to bed, we have to attend a breakfast with your father tomorrow."

I felt my throat seize and bile rise, but the urge to make my stranger feel the same angst as I did was strong. "Yes, mother." I paused at the large double wooden doors, "I don't have any shows or training tomorrow, I know you wanted me to meet Kingsley's son."

Nothing more was needed; my mother would have the date set within the next five minutes. She'd been pressuring me for months to go on at least one date with Colin Kingsley. I'd managed to escape each set-up with shows or training.

Colin Kingsley was a ladies' man.

Every one of the girls in the district wanted him, the golden boy with shiny gel hair and chiselled jaw. It was simply assumed we'd eventually wed, with both our families sitting high politically. The joining of our families would create a force to reckon with.

And yet despite this, despite his clean shaved jaw and thousand-dollar ironed suits. I sought my shadowed stranger who smelt awfully close to metal.

No more though, no matter how much I wanted his tainted hands to bring me to my knees. If I let him in any more than I already had, he'd take it all, there'd be nothing left. My stranger was selfish, took and took—even giving was crafted to his own satisfaction.

He wouldn't give me any grace.

I stripped my clothes and submerged myself in the ice-cold bath. Remaining underwater until my skin stung, my lungs burned, and my thighs ached for something a lot more devastating.

**

My fingers played with the lace frill of my pink sundress.

Father and mother talked animatedly with the Kingsley's, laughing and discussing the petty moral dilemmas those beneath them suffered with.

I looked down at my plate, moving the salad around unenthusiastically.

Who in their right mind had salad for breakfast?

My mother had ordered for me of course. 

Men like their wives thin, Dahlia. 

Her bitter voice ran through my head, sometimes I wanted to tell her that maybe she should've thought about that before she conceived me. My genetic code was built in with double D's and a round behind that seemed indecent on my toned body—thanks, nanna.

Colin sat beside me, he was six feet, a lot taller than my five-four frame but nowhere near as tall as my stranger. "What time do you want me to pick you up tonight?" He asked, his breath felt like spiders crawling along my exposed shoulder.

"Oh, that's okay, I'll meet you at the restaurant." I smiled, politely, sensibly.

He tensed, looking up towards the alcove that led to the bathrooms and back of house. "You sure, it's no trouble, Dahlia," Colin said, his attention back on me.

I held back the urge to recoil as his sweaty palm rested on my twitching fingers, on the table. I gripped the butterknife in my other hand hard. I wanted to scream, tell him to remove his hands but then I remembered the way I parted my legs for a faceless man without any hesitation.

Nodding I said, "I have to stop by the studio first, I've a class."

Colin seemed unimpressed with my refusal but agreed.