Prince Player(150)

When I was a little girl, I snuck into my father’s office. It was off-limits back then, for good reason. I was stupid and silly, and I ended up breaking an antique model ship, one of my father’s favorites. He locked me in the basement for a week, feeding me once a day, before letting me out. Nobody said a word, but everyone knew what he had done. The staff all knew, my brothers both knew, and my mother knew. But nobody stopped him and nobody said a word.

My brothers have gotten it just as bad in the past. My father beat my brother Peter bloody once. Michael was forced to stand out on the roof in the rain for three hours in nothing but his underwear. I can only guess what my mother has been through.

So when my father threatens me, I take him seriously. The money and the clothes and the comfort, that stuff doesn’t really motivate me. Of course, I like that stuff, and I want to be comfortable, but I don’t need that stuff. I want to get out from under my father’s control.

But I can’t. Although he threatened to take things away from me, I know he’ll do worse.

“Yes, father,” I whisper, and I hate myself for it.

He smiles and my mother nods, looking smug. “Very good,” he says. “Tomorrow night. Until then, Thomas will be taking your laptop and your cellphone.”

I don’t protest, I simply nod my head and accept it.

“May I be excused?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says. “Thomas is already in your room, cleaning it out.”

I stand and leave without another word. I hurry back to my room, heart beating fast in my chest.

Thomas gives me a sad look as I come into my room. He has a small box, and in it he has piled every device I could possibly use to contact the outside world. He leaves my room wordlessly, and doesn’t meet my gaze.

I shut my door quietly before retreating into my closet.

My fucking father. I finally let the anger that I’ve been suppressing flow through me as soon as I’m in my nook. I want to kill him, scream at him, hurt him as badly as he hurts me. But I can’t do anything. I’m powerless here, and I can’t even contact Gavin to explain. He’s going to wonder where I’ve gone and maybe think that I don’t want to see him anymore.

I can handle a dinner with Milo. That’s not a big deal. I can get through it and pretend like I give a shit about any of it. But what I can’t handle is Gavin thinking I don’t want him anymore.

Because I do. All of this is making me want him even more. Gavin is the first person to let me live the life that I want. He seems to care more about making me happy and making me feel good than getting whatever he wants out of me. He makes everything feel better.

It’s just one dinner, I tell myself. Then I’ll get my phone back and I’ll tell Gavin the truth about what’s happening. He’ll understand.

It’s just one dinner.



Milo smiles at me as he spreads his napkin in his lap. I smile back, trying to make the best of this situation, but inwardly dreading every single moment.

“What do you think of the wine?” he asks me.

I shrug a little and sip it again. “Pretty good.”

He grins. “Pretty good? Please, this is some of the finest wine I’ve ever tasted. A lovely French vintage, I think, from the Somme region.”

I frown a little bit. “Doesn’t it say that on the bottle?”

He pauses. “Well, of course, but I can taste it in the grapes.”

“Right.”

He starts in on a little speech about how each different vintage comes out slightly different due to water levels and blah, blah, blah. I tune him out pretty quickly, idly playing with my fork, smiling and nodding only when required, which isn’t often.

The differences between this date and my date with Gavin couldn’t be more obvious. Gavin took me to a personal spot, a place he clearly loved and cared for, while Milo brought me to the most expensive restaurant he could. It’s a lovely place, and I’m sure the food is great, just like the wine is wonderful, but it feels cold. I can’t really explain it. Luberto’s was warm and inviting and maybe it wasn’t fine dining, but it was family style and it was delicious.

I sigh to myself and glance down at the table. Milo doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not really listening, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Maybe he thinks that having money and knowledge about things like wine, plus a strong family connection, makes him important and special.

Well, it doesn’t. It makes him just like all of the other boys I know: dull and entitled.

The waiter comes after a few minutes. He asks if we’re ready, and Milo doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes, we’ll start with the anchovy spread and the rustic bread, please. The lady will have the halibut and I will have the risotto.”