Page 30 of The Tower

I stand naked for a moment, letting my physical appearance mirror my mental state. Because for the entirety of this day, I’ve felt on display. Examined. Judged.

So, yeah, big, fluffy robe? That sounds pretty nice.

I sigh as I slide into it, but it takes a moment for me to cinch the tie since my hands are shaking. Nerves, I think as I stare at myself in the mirror. The robe is beyond casual, while my hair in its fancy up-do looks like I’m heading to a coronation ball, even with the few strands that have escaped the hairpins. With a surge of unexpected fury, I start ripping those damned pins out and tossing them in the sink. I’m so sick and tired of being a dress-up doll for everyone’s pleasure but my own.

Each tiny clatter in the basin feels like a punch — another piece of my father I’m tearing off and throwing away.

Rip out the pins. Rip out the lies. Rip out the girl he built for show.

When the pins are out, I bend over and run my fingers through my hair, loosening the braids and twists and whatever else the hairstylist did earlier today.

I shiver. Was it really only today?

I straighten, thinking of all that has happened since I woke up in my bed. Technically, that was yesterday morning, but as I haven’t slept, I figure it’s all the same.

I give myself a mental pat on the back. Today’s the day I walked out of hell. And no matter what happens next, that’s something.

I meet my eyes in the mirror and nod, as if in solidarity. My normally straight hair hangs almost to my waist, the kinks and curls from the twists and the braids giving me a wild, almost beachy look.

The mass of hair is heavy and time-consuming, and I’ve considered cutting it so many times, but my father wouldn’t allow it. I’m a little princess, after all. And my hair is my crown.

If that were the only factor, I’d shave my head and suffer the consequences. But the truth is, I like my hair, too. Despite the major pain-in-the-butt factor that comes from care and styling.

Now, I do nothing more complicated than tucking it behind my ears as I pick up the dress, then head barefoot back into the bedroom to continue my exploration.

I randomly open dresser drawers, finding extra sheets, a box of tissue, several drawers of nothing at all, and then—strangely—a sleek, silver laptop computer.

I start to close the drawer, assuming Grimm’s last guest had left it behind. But then I change my mind. This is my room now. And if there’s even the slightest chance that any of Grimm’s information is on that computer, I want to see it.

As soon as I’m settled on the bed with the lid open and the device plugged in, I know there won’t be any secrets here. The screen isn’t even locked. It simply says, “Have A Pleasant Stay.”

A bit more polite than I’d expect from Grimm, but then again, what do I know? Maybe he’s a pussycat around everybody but me.

I dim the brightness to stave off the headache that’s determined to invite friends. Then I poke around the hard drive, but there’s nothing installed on the computer except for a couple of web browsers.

And isn’t that interesting …?

For a moment, I debate logging in. After all, it’s just sitting there like a trap, all bright and shiny, like tin foil to attract a blackbird.

Doesn’t matter—I’m going in. I head over to Instagram first, then leave a U There? DM for Ruby. When she doesn’t answer right away, I assume she’s asleep. A reasonable assumption since it’s almost 3am.

Ruby, however, never turns off her phone ringer. According to her, as my PA, she needs to be available to me night or day. And since my father switches out my phone number every few weeks without warning—because god forbid someone I meet at a shoot should call me socially—she lets any and all calls ring through.

Thankfully, I don’t have too many three a.m. crises. And I don’t bother making friends on shoots anymore. That never works out.

It takes no time to create a new Internet-based number, then to dial hers from memory.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

I frown. She usually picks up right away.

Ring. Ring.

A message pops up to tell me my party hasn’t answered—as if I couldn’t figure that out on my own—and I click the button to continue ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

I’m about to give up and just try again in the morning when I hear a click and then a breathy, “Hello?”