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“It needs to be on your finger,” he snaps.
“I’m not wearing that thing. This engagement you’ve forced me into is fake, but that rock is real, and I’m not wearing a million-dollar diamond on my finger,” I hiss, taking another step closer and holding the ring out to him.
“Put it on,” he demands.
“No,” I snap.
“Put the fucking ring on, Izzy. Right the fuck now,” he orders.
“Or what?” I snarl, feeling more anger fill me as I think about the chaos he’s wrought in my life in the last twenty-four hours.
“Or I don’t just tell your parents that you set up this fake engagement, I’ll go to the press. I’ll drag you and your family through the mud, get the story on the society pages of every fucking newspaper in the country,” he growls, standing up and moving to loom over me.
“Gulliver, what the fuck?” I hear Kip shout.
“I hate you,” I whisper, vehemence filling my words.
He jolts back in shock as if I’ve surprised him. Forcing the stupid ring back onto my finger, I flip him the bird, turn, and storm away, ignoring the sound of my name as they call me.
Mark’s eyes are wide and wary as I climb into the car, and he silently closes the door behind me, swiftly moving to the driver’s seat and starting the car’s engine. Glancing out of the window, I see Gulliver bursting through the front door.
“Go,” I say, and Mark immediately pulls away from the curb, ignoring Gulliver’s fist banging on my window as we start to move.
Lifting my feet onto the seat, I bury my head against my knees and curl into a ball, sucking in shaky gasps of air as silently as I can. The last twenty-four hours have been overwhelmingly awful, and I know the worst is still to come.
My cell starts to ring, and I glance down to see an unknown number appear on the screen. The only numbers I have in my cell are my parents, Penelope, Mark, and now Fitzy, who almost had an apoplectic fit when he saw my ancient cell phone this morning.
Rejecting the call, I startle when it immediately starts to ring again. A slither of hope creeps in when I wonder if it’s Gulliver calling me to tell me he’s changed his mind and that it’s time to tell my parents the truth. But I’m not an idiot. If it is Gulliver calling me, it’s more likely to be him reminding me of what he’ll do if I don’t behave.
Rejecting the call again, I hold down the button and turn off my phone, sliding it back into my pocket.
“Are you okay?” Mark asks.
“No,” I admit, pulling my lower lip into my mouth to stop it from shaking.
He doesn’t say anything more, but I can feel his worried gaze on me in the rearview mirror. We get to my house much quicker than I would have liked, and it only feels like seconds later when Mark opens my door, his eyes watching me sympathetically.
I climb out before all of my falsified courage deserts me, smiling at Mrs. Humphries when she opens the door. For a minute, I consider hiding in my room until one of them forces the confrontation I know is coming, but I don’t get a chance.
“Hello, daughter, you’ve got some explaining to do,” my mother’s cold, chilling voice says.
20
GULLIVER
Islap my palm against her car window, but she ignores me and the car continues to roll forward, the wheels spinning slightly on the gravel before gaining traction and driving away. “Izzy!” I pointlessly shout as the car disappears from view.
Angrily ripping my cell from my pocket, I dial the number Fitzy texted me earlier, lifting my cell to my ear and listening to it ring out before I’m sent to an automated voicemail. Disconnecting the call, I immediately call her back, growling in annoyance as I’m sent to voicemail again. I call a third time, but it doesn’t even ring before the stupid robotic voice prompts me to leave a message.
“Fuck,” I hiss, exhaling loudly as I stomp back into the house, pushing past Beth, who is still holding the door, her eyes wide with shock. “She’s fucking gone,” I growl, dropping back into my seat on the terrace. I’m angry. No, I’m more than angry. This morning started so well, she was laughing, giggling, and smiling, she felt like one of us. But then she was talking about her fucking family again, and I lost it.
“I need a real drink,” I growl, standing and marching to the bar. I pour myself a healthy measure of bourbon into a glass and immediately down half of the contents, relishing the way the liquor burns as I swallow.
Returning to my seat, I find all three of my friends watching me: Davis and Thorn’s expressions are pensive, while Kip’s is angry.
“You’re taking this too far,” Kip warns.
“This has nothing to do with you,” I snap.
