Chapter 3 - Broken Glass and Blood|
Donovan did not punch her. A punch would have left an obvious mark that demanded a formal explanation to the family council.
Instead, he released her arm and wrapped his thick thumb and fingers around her jaw. Then he squeezed. His nails dug deep into her skin, forcing her head upward until she had no choice but to look straight into his bloodshot eyes.
"You think because you clean Vincent’s toilets, you have a right to talk back?" he spat, his breath hot against her skin.
Spit struck her cheek. He shoved her head backward into the heavy wood-paneled wall. The impact rattled her teeth, and bright stars burst across the edges of her vision.
"Clean this up," he hissed. "Then get me my drink."
He released her and gave her one final contemptuous shove before walking away, casually adjusting his gold cuffs.
Fay did not fall. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself against the wall, rough wood scraping her uniform. The pain in her jaw came immediately, radiating outward in a deep, throbbing heat where his fingers had dug into her flesh.
She did not cry. You did not cry in the hallways of the Cross estate. Crying made sound, and ghosts did not make sound.
She knelt slowly and began collecting the broken glass. Her hands shook so badly that a jagged piece of crystal sliced her index finger. A bead of blood formed—bright, vivid red—and fell onto the polished floor.
May you like
Fay wiped it away with her apron, cleaned the rest of the mess, carried the tray downstairs to the basement kitchens, and survived exactly as she always had: by enduring.
By two in the morning, the estate had gone quiet. The guests had stumbled into town cars, the capos had withdrawn to the guest wings, and the caterers had fled back to civilian life.
