Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
I take a step back, shaking my head. My stomach churns with nausea, and I need to get rid of all those calories I forced into my body. The food I consumed was more than what my body can hold, and the desperation to release it claws under my flesh. “I need to use the bathroom first.”
My mother scoffs and grips my elbow. “We don’t have time for this, Riley!” She drags me to my white vanity and forces me to sit down on the plush stool. “Your father is already waiting downstairs and we’re going to be late. You know very well how much your father hates lateness!”
No, she doesn’t understand.
I need to purge, or I won’t make it through the night. The food has settled roughly in the pit of my stomach, and it’s causing me uncomfortable cramps.
“Mom!” I yell, tears burning the back of my eyes. “I need to use the bathroom! Just give me ten minutes, please.”
The image of me bending over the toilet, retching as I dig my fingers down my throat fills my mind. This is what I need right now.
My gaze falls on the scrapes on the backs of my knuckles, and I try to hide my hands in my lap. I know some people can purge without using their fingers, but as much as I’ve tried, I just can’t do that. It’s also the reason why I always keep my nails short, much to my mother’s dislike, to avoid injuring my throat or causing any infections.
My mother’s hand tightens around my arm, and she pinches me, right above my elbow. It stings and I wince. Our eyes meet through the mirror, and her face is flushed with anger. “I’ve had enough of your attitude, young lady. Get undressed, now! We literally only have five minutes to do your hair and makeup.”
I swallow down my nausea and do as I’m told. I am my mother’s dutiful daughter.
Compliant, faithful and docile.
Once I’m dressed, she’s pulling my hair into a neat bun while I try to quickly do my makeup. She studies me through the mirror, and I wonder if she can see all my imperfections, all the ugliness that I keep inside me.
“You are lucky you got your natural beauty from me,” she compliments haughtily, but I know the praise is more for her than me. “Here, use the red lipstick. Bright red lips always complete any look.”
I’m dressed and ready to go in exactly eight minutes.
My mother rushes me out of my room and down the stairs, where my father is waiting in the lobby. He barely spares us a glance. “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter in apology under my breath.
“Lateness is unladylike,” he grumbles harshly.
“I understand, I won’t be late again.” The diamond choker around my neck feels more like a restraining collar than a pretty, expensive necklace that was gifted to me on my birthday.
On our way to the venue, my stomach feels bloated. It’s painful and profoundly uncomfortable, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I fidget in my seat, and the lulling movement of the Range Rover has my stomach roiling with nausea, but I keep swallowing it down.
My throat burns with acidic bile. Deep breath, I remind myself. Just like I’ve read online.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
When the car comes to a halt, I release a shuddering breath and plaster on a fake smile before stepping out. It’s a smile I’ve mastered. The one that tells people that Riley is in control, even when she’s spiraling out of it.
The one that speaks of confidence, even though she’s shriveling from the inside.
I am Riley Johnson: poised and confident. Calm, cool and collected. The perfect lady that my mother raised and my father expects me to be.
They see what I want them to see.
And it’s always been like that for as long as I can remember.
Dutiful, quiet, ladylike.
My mother and father walk inside, her hand around the curve of his elbow. They truly look like a power couple, walking with utmost confidence and authority.
I follow quietly behind them, ignoring the camera flashes.
Only I know that their marriage is loveless. An arrangement to further my father’s political career. My father needed an upper-class bride, and my mother needed a man with great wealth and social standing. Their marriage is a sham, and I am the unpleasant result of their fake love.
The air is cool inside, but I tense when I see the people — all of them in their fancy dresses and suits, champagne glasses in their hands and judgmental looks in their eyes.
The temperature rises in my body, and I suddenly feel suffocated.
I’m always on my best behavior during any social gathering, with my pretty smiles as I converse with anyone who approaches me. But I hate it.
I hate the crowd.