Net Worth by Amelia Wilde
21
Charlotte
I’ve been fuckedby Mason Hill.
How do I keep living in the world as if I haven’t been? I guess that’s not really an option. It happened. He punished me. He fucked me.
He’s inside me now.
Mason’s careful—or at least not rough—when he pulls himself out. I open my eyes as he moves to the side of the bed and stands.
Oh, Jesus. He’s even hotter like this, even more perfect. I can just see how I’d fit a jacket to the angle of his hips. How the hem would land near the thick, proud cock he just used to fuck me. How I’d sew a shirt to hint at the ridges of his abs and hug his strong shoulders. How I’d cut a pair of slacks for his Greek-god thighs. I’m delirious, tracing the long lines of those thighs down to the scars.
One knee. His right knee. A lattice of surgical scars, some obviously newer than others.
My breath comes quicker. This is the secret he hides beneath his clothes. This might be more vulnerable than having him inside me, if it were possible for a man like Mason to be vulnerable.
What’s wrong with your leg?
Nothing.
It’s hard to feel any fear of this moment when every muscle is under a weighted quilt of pleasure.
I meet his eyes again. The green-gold is shadowed in the low light, and there’s an expression on his face that could be pain. Or maybe I’m seeing things.
“What happened?” Speaking is a struggle.
Mason steps closer to the bed. Bends down. Turns my face to the side. “I belted your ass red, and then I couldn’t help but fuck you.” A kiss so light it’s probably my imagination.
He releases me and pads out of the room. I lose track of time. Must not be long, but I’m floating. He’s dressed when I look for him again. A soft t-shirt and slacks. Without a word, he unties my wrists. Helps me off the bed. Guides me to his bathroom.
Water runs, and a washcloth appears in front of my face. It’s warm under my fingertips, but I don’t take it. Can’t, really. Mason says something I don’t understand and puts an arm around my back. We end up at the ledge of a deep, deep tub surrounded in shining tiles, where he sits and positions me in front of him.
All I feel is warm now.
Until he runs it between my legs. I want to be playing it cooler than this, but a hiss escapes me before I can stop it. “It’s all right,” he murmurs, steadying me by the hip. Maybe he says something else. It’s hard to understand. I’ll probably want to remember it later.
My mind is in another place. A gauzy, lifting pleasure. “Ms. Van Kempt,” says Mason. I look into his face, his mean, beautiful face. The corner of his mouth curves up. “I wish,” I think he says. But what does he wish? I don’t know.
For a minute he’s gone, and when he comes back he has my purple dress in his hands. It’s all I brought with me, aside from my purse and shoes. I stand in front of him on unsteady legs while he shakes it out and slips it over my head. The fabric falls lightly around my skin. “Turn around,” he says.
His hands are gentle on the fabric. It’s a slim keyhole back, held together by a single button. Mason pauses in the middle of drawing the pieces together. “What’s this?” He turns me slightly, angling the dress toward the light to read the tag. “Charlotte Van Kempt? You made this yourself?”
We have very recently finished fucking, but I blush anyway. “I love fashion,” I admit. “It’s mostly just a hobby, really. Dresses. Skirts. Blouses. I sell a little on Etsy.”
“When do you have time to do this?”
“After I come home from the office. Late at night. Whenever I have a spare minute.”
His fingers work on the button. “So why don’t you do this full time? It’s clear you care a hell of a lot more about this than you do about real estate. ” I don’t have a chance to answer, because he lets out a soft laugh. “Ah. Because you’re busy saving your father’s business.”
“Yeah.” I can’t keep the longing out of my voice. If I could make clothes full time, I would.
“Poor little martyr,” Mason murmurs, his fingers still warm on the button, still testing the flesh beneath. “Giving up your dreams. Sacrificing yourself for your family.”
He takes the pendant from around my neck and puts it somewhere I don’t see. Mason used it to gag me, but it feels like a loss.
I’m still floating.
Is it possible I sit on his sofa in his living room, drinking water from a slim bottle and eating a shortbread cookie? I come back to myself in the middle of it and blink at him. “You’re nicer than I thought.”
He laughs, a low, dark sound. “I doubt you’ll feel the same way in the morning.”
Mason takes me to the elevator, wraps his hands around the back of my neck, and kisses me. He kisses me the way he licked me before. Long and thorough and deep. Almost like he’s sure I won’t remember. He pushes me backward into the elevator with his mouth on mine, and when the doors shut between us, it’s like he disappears into thin air.
He’s gone.
I’m gone.
I don’t know how long I sit behind the wheel of the town car in the parking garage, waking up. I’m sure I didn’t fall asleep, but that’s what it feels like.
It’s all dark roads on the way home. Less traffic now, but a drive nonetheless. I think about him the entire time. What happened to him? What surgeries left those scars?
My eyes are burning by the time I pull onto the cobblestone drive. It’s a small torture, having to slow down to four miles an hour while the car bounces over potholes. My ass hurts from Mason’s belt. And his hand. It makes my face hot to think about it. I can’t stop. I’m reminded by every. Single. Bounce.
And—nice. All the lights in the house are on. I don’t know how many times I have to tell my parents that we can’t leave them on like this anymore. Our electric bill is racking up with each second that passes. I’m going to have to go through the entire house and make sure they’re all switched off before I can sleep.
The garage door screeches on its way up. Well—soon enough, I’ll have the money to fix it. Or I’ll have the money to stage the house and put it on the market. I’ll have the money, because I didn’t run away from Mason. I didn’t want to. Even the indistinct memories bring on a shiver. I need to sleep before I can figure out how wrong it is to want more of that. Shit, it hurt so much.
Still does.
But I feel so good.
I step gingerly out of the town car. Close the garage door. All my muscles ache as I head for the kitchen door and open it.
To the sound of shouting.
I’m instantly, fully awake. My parents don’t shout at each other. I know it happens—I’ve heard them talking about their friends over the years in murmured conversations over small dinner parties. Whose husband got out of control. Whose wife would lock herself in the bathroom. But it never happened in our house.
It’s happening now.
There’s almost nothing left to deaden the sound, so the roar of my father’s voice fills the space. The words themselves don’t separate. Only the sharp consonants and the wide, sarcastic vowels. I’m frozen at the kitchen door waiting for it to stop.
It does, and with that moment of quiet comes the guilt. There’s no one but my mother for him to yell at like that. Heavy footsteps thud across the upper floor and it occurs to me I’ve never seen Mason move like that, never seen him try to make himself more intimidating by losing control.
This is bad. This is really bad.
The footsteps come down the stairs and I tuck myself in to where the cupboards jut out from the pantry door. I know it won’t matter. My parents will have heard the garage door opening and closing. They might have even seen my headlights on the driveway. If he wants to find me, he will.
His footsteps pause at the bottom of the stairs.
I hold my breath.
An indecipherable mumble, and the footsteps stomp down to his office. The door slams a moment later, and I kick off my Target heels and run. Light on my feet. Minimal noise. The pain from Mason’s punishment seems far away right now. I take the stairs two at a time and rush down the hall to the master bedroom. This is where my mother has been sleeping all my life—where my father sleeps when he’s not in the guest room. I always thought it was because of his snoring or her headaches and maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I was very, very wrong.
I catch the door frame with one hand and swing myself into the room. It’s all lit up. My mother hates overhead lights, but that one’s on, too. The fan circles lazily above a frantic scene.
My mother’s too-thin frame buzzes back and forth from her walk-in closet to the foot of the bed. A suitcase is thrown open there. It’s at a lopsided angle, like it took most of her strength to get it down from the high shelf where she keeps it.
“Mama.” She tips the clothes in her arms into the suitcase and opens her arms wide. I go into them and hug her tight. “What’s happening? What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving, Charlotte. I’m sorry. I’m leaving.” Her blonde hair is twisted into a bun on the top of her head. That’s not like her. “I have to go.” A tight squeeze, and she lets go. I haven’t seen her move this quickly, and with this much purpose, for months now. She seems most normal when we go to events like the gala at the botanical gardens, and even then it takes a lot out of her.
“Are you okay?” She’s back out of the closet before I can follow her in. Another bag is already packed next to the suitcase—a big shoulder tote that she used to use on summer beach days. Two photo albums stick out the top and the side bulges. “Mama? Are you okay?”
“I’ll be okay,” she says. “I’ll be fine. You should come with me. We can—” Her hands press down on the clothes in the suitcase. There aren’t very many. She must be nearly done packing, because I know her wardrobe has been stripped down just like mine. “I have a car coming in a few minutes to pick me up.”
No—I can’t. I’m not ready, and I don’t know what it will mean if we both go on the run. Debt collectors don’t care about that. They just want to be paid. “What happened?” I put a hand on her arm to stop her. “Please. Tell me what happened.”
A glance at the door. “Your father came home in a strange car with a black eye. I didn’t even know he left, Charlotte.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “I don’t know who brought him back here. It wasn’t an hour ago, and he—” She closes her eyes, then opens them to look into mine. “I can’t do this again. I can’t stand to the side and watch while he destroys himself. Destroys me along with him.” Her phone lights up on the bed. “That’s my ride.”
Dread creeps in. “What’s he going to do?”
“It’s already done.” My mother flips the top of the suitcase closed and jerks the zipper around until it’s closed. I help her haul it off the bed and we both stand in the quiet, listening. “Okay,” she says softly. “I’m going to go out through the kitchen.”
Out through the kitchen and around the side of the house, so she doesn’t have to go past his office. “I’ll help you carry your things.”
My lungs scream with the effort of carrying the suitcase down the stairs one painstaking step at a time. It’s heavy with all the important things from her life and at least one secret she can’t or won’t tell me. We sneak to the back door. My mother opens it with a quick pull and steps outside, taking a huge breath of the night air.
I follow her. The suitcase rolls neatly on the path behind me. The Uber she hired is just pulling into the mouth of the circle drive when we get there, and my mother speeds up. She doesn’t want him to park in front of the house. Any moment now, my father could come out the front door and cause a scene. Drag her back inside. The driver pops the trunk as we approach and I shove the suitcase in. My mother checks the license plate and yanks open the back door. Whoever’s driving greets her, but she turns back to me. “Are you coming?”
Yes, says every instinct I have.
“Not yet. But I’ll be careful. I’ll be safe.” I don’t know what I’m saying. My father is inside the house. Who knows what’s waiting for me in there, now that Mason has punched him? “I’ll leave if I have to. There are things I need. I’ll text you.”
Another tight tight tight hug and she sits down, lips pressed into a thin line. “I love you, Charlie Bear.”
My oldest nickname. “I love you, Mama.”
I watch the taillights of the car until they disappear at the end of the drive. My ass smarts. Mason was right—my parents aren’t going to know what happened. He thought I’d be sitting through dinner like this.
Nope.
In bare feet, I’m practically silent going back into the house.
The office door is closed.
I march up and open it before I lose my nerve. “Daddy? What’s going on?”
The apocalypse. That’s what. He’s leaning back in his desk chair, the neck of a bottle in his hand. The purple bruise around his eye is much worse than I thought. His glass sits empty on the desk. “Hi, honey. How was your date tonight? Are you still playing whore for Mason Hill?”
I flinch in spite of myself, but anger steels my spine. He’s crossed a line. My father’s obviously drunk. Obviously. That doesn’t happen. My pulse pounds with the uncertainty. “I know you went to Cornerstone today.”
He tips the bottle up to his lips and drinks. There’s not much. “I’m allowed to visit my own goddamn property.”
“I told you I would handle it, Daddy. There was no need for you to go there.”
Somehow, even his laugh is slurred. “I wanted to talk to the man who’s fucking my daughter. Didn’t I teach you anything about bastards like Hill? Open your legs for garbage and you are garbage.”
My stomach turns. I’ve seen my father be less than kind at meetings. I saw him snub Mason at the gala. He’s never turned it on me like this before. “Mason Hill is our business partner. He’s the reason Cornerstone is going to be completed. Please don’t go back there again.”
“Why would I go back? I’ve done what I needed to do.” He gestures at me with the bottle. “First step to getting anything done is to appraise the asset. Just like he appraised you.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m done with that place.” My father drains the bottle. “And so is Hill. I’d pay to see his face when he realizes. It’ll probably be the same as his father’s. Didn’t get to see that either. I felt sorry for his father, but not him. Not the son of a bitch.”
I don’t know if I can stand to be more horrified than I already am. It’s like I’ve swallowed a bucket of churning ice water. I could be sick on the floor. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Money, sweetheart. You should know by now. This house and everything inside it. How do you think I paid for it? Nothing like a good insurance payout to wash the debts away. Such a clean slate. What works once will work again.”
“Daddy…”
“Daddy,” he mocks. “I’m tired of looking at you. You’ve been a waste, Charlotte. A good-for-nothing slut who spread her legs for a man who should have died with his father.”
I’m shaking with fear. With rage. “What insurance payout are you talking about?”
“Get out.”
He throws his glass. It’s too sudden. Too shocking. The fact that he’s done it doesn’t register in my mind until it hits the wall to the left of me and shatters. A thin, bright pain cuts into my cheek. It sounds like all my work, and all our plans, splintering into shards. I press a hand to that pain and run.
I’m already gone, already going for the stairs, when he shouts after me.
Not my name. A curse.
I burst into my bedroom and grab for my computer. There’s no time to gather all my clothes, and all my fabric pieces, all my tools. One Etsy order, already in its padded envelope. I shove the envelope and the computer under my arm. One more turn back at the door for a photo. Me and my mom on the beach at the Hamptons when I was about six, with missing teeth and wild hair. Both of her arms are slung around me and we look thrilled to be alive.
Back downstairs. Through the house. My purse and shoes lay abandoned at the garage door. I scoop those up, too, and fling myself out of the house as my father calls after me.
“Whore,” he slurs. “Just like your mother.”
