Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
My mother looks less than impressed with having to wait. She looks tired but I'm sure that has more to do with my father's extensive schedule than actually worrying that her only child has been missing for a month. Her face doesn't light up, seeing me for the first time in many weeks. She doesn't run across the room and wrap her arms around me in a bear hug. She doesn't tell me that she missed me or that she's glad that I'm home safe.
I don't know why I let myself even imagine she would feel that way. Maybe it's being cared for so thoroughly for the last month that allowed those ridiculous thoughts to infiltrate my head. But her just standing there staring at me expectantly is all I'm offered.
I knew my parents’ reaction to me has always been sort of cold and businesslike, but it’s blatantly obvious in this moment. Roxanne showed more enthusiasm from our arrival than my own mother is. I'd laugh if it didn't almost make me cry.
“Your father is waiting for you in his office,” she says.
When she lingers in the doorway, a moment longer than usual, I think that maybe I was wrong to judge her. That maybe she does have all of those emotions for me, but they're just as familiar as the emotions I usually have. I let myself fantasize that she finally breaks that stoic composure of hers and acts out of character. But she simply nods at me before leaving the room and closing my bedroom door.
Things would have been different if they were home when I arrived last night. Our reunion would have been staged for sound bites. There would have been fake tears and joyous hugs. They would have blamed incompetent house staff for the leaked video footage when it really would have come from Christine, my father's media specialist.
I got online last night long enough to get a feel of the atmosphere. It’s about a fifty-fifty split between those with a million questions, demanding answers, and those who have expressed their joyous gratitude that I’ve been returned home safe and sound.
Once again, I'm slow to climb off the bed, unconcerned if my father is waiting, uncaring of how irritated he will be when I finally make my way downstairs to his office.
Although I showered last night, I feel the need to shower again. Being back in this house makes my skin crawl. My shower here is nothing like the shower back at Liam's house. The old, fully remodeled Victorian takes a while before the water is warm enough to get in.
I douche for a second time, because although the hospital staff allowed me to refuse a sexual assault exam, I don't see my father being as willing to accept my demand for privacy.
I try to get out as many tears as I possibly can before turning off the shower and drying off. I don't care that my parents will see me with red eyes and a puffy face. I imagine it's to be expected after the trauma I'm sure they assume I've encountered.
I cringe when I dress despite only pulling on underclothes, a t-shirt and lounge pants. They won't be pleased with my choice of attire either, despite being in my own home.
I don't make eye contact with my two bodyguards that are stationed outside of my room. I heard them out there chattering last night so their presence isn't a surprise. What is concerning is that we've never needed this level of security inside of the house. It's not unusual for my dad to have guards around when taking meetings but my bodyguards usually disappear the second I arrive home.
My flip-flops slap on the floor as I descend the stairs. I knock on my father's office door, the action more muscle memory than any formal show of respect. As if being punished for my delay, I stand there for a solid minute before the door opens and I'm allowed entry.
I don't know why I expected this meeting to just include me, my mother, and my father. Why would we need a private moment to discuss anything that's happened to me in the last month?
With tired eyes, I look around the room. My exhaustion is bone deep. I've done more in the last twenty-four hours physically than I've done nearly the entire month I was with Liam. The fatigue experienced from running on the treadmill doesn't even compare to the weariness I currently feel in my bones and my muscles. I guess that's just how heartbreak works though.
I look around the room again, making eye contact with Christine, my dad's PR specialist. The family lawyer and my father's personal assistants are in the room as well. This meeting looks like any other meeting he would have to discuss schedules, poll numbers, and strategic plans for the future.