Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Inquiring minds want to know, Jonathan. After all, Alicia left too soon.”
“Dad…” Elsa pleads.
Jonathan’s hold on my thigh tightens, his fingers digging into the skin. I wince, placing my spoon next to my plate. I’m in no mood to eat.
I stare behind me in a helpless attempt to have Layla get me out of here.
My attention is stolen by a petite girl in a dirty hoodie and torn shoes, who’s carrying a crying baby in her arms.
Sarah.
My fingers shake as the recognition settles in the pit of my stomach. She’s eleven years older now. Back then, she was around ten, her blonde hair cut to beneath her chin and her huge green eyes filled with tears as she held the sign.
‘JUSTICE’.
Everyone else hit me with eggs, food, and even used condoms. They called me names. They pulled on my hair and scratched my skin.
They called me an accomplice.
She didn’t.
She held on to my sleeve and whispered the words that broke me to pieces, “Please, can I have my mum back? I have no one but her. Please, I’ll give you everything I have.”
Then she was pushed away by someone who threw a bucket of black dirt on my face.
It’s been eleven years, but I’ve never forgotten that girl. I dream of her sometimes, of her green eyes and her silent pleas. Of the desperation in them, of the innocence that Dad killed along with her mum.
Even now, as I recall that scene, my skin prickles and my ears start buzzing with a shrill beeping sound.
They’re coming after me.
They’ll kill me.
‘Do you blame them, though?’
The words I heard from the officers who were supposed to protect me rush to the forefront of my brain. Even they thought I didn’t need protection. If it had been up to them, they would’ve thrown me out of the car into the hands of the protestors.
A harsh grip on my thigh brings me back to reality. I’ve been clutching my watch, hands fisted in my lap.
Jonathan throws a quizzical glance in my direction. That says something, considering how engrossed he was in his verbal war with Ethan.
“I…” I stand abruptly, forcing Jonathan to release me. “I need to go.”
I don’t wait for their reply as I rush from there. My eyes meet Sarah’s before I duck down, then practically jog towards the back entrance. That girl can’t find me. None of them can.
My steps are a frantic, jumbled mess. I trip and nearly fall, but I hold myself up and continue my escape out of here.
My car is nowhere in sight. My vision is blurry. I didn’t even bring my bag or my keys.
They’re coming for you.
Run.
Run.
Instead of doing just that, my legs lock and I couldn’t move even if I tried. I spot Moses, Jonathan’s driver, smoking in front of his car.
I don’t think about it as I half-jog in the direction of the Mercedes, open the back door, and slide in.
A breath heaves out of me the minute I’m out of the open. She can’t find me in here.
They can’t find me.
Despite that, I stare out of the tinted windows, making sure no one followed me.
“Good evening, Ms Harper.”
I yelp, my hand clutching my heart at the voice coming from my right.
Harris sits beside me, his tablet in hand as usual. He’s wearing a shirt tucked into his trousers with his jacket lying beside him.
He adjusts his glasses with his index and middle finger. “I apologise for startling you.”
“What…” I clear my throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“I meant, what are you doing outside of the charity event? And since you’re here, shouldn’t you go inside?”
“No. This event wasn’t on the schedule. I’m preparing a draft for a meeting that we’re going to have with our Chinese partners in a few hours.”
I frown. “Then why isn’t Jonathan with you?”
“That’s my question, Ms Harper. He insisted to come here instead of preparing for the meeting.”
Oh.
Is it because Ethan is attending? Or maybe it’s because of me?
Don’t even think about it, Aurora.
An awkward silence falls over the car as Harris focuses back on his tablet. I squirm and wince when my arse burns, remembering my lack of underwear since the tyrant, Jonathan, confiscated it.
Instead of thinking about that, I tilt my head to study Harris. He must be somewhere in his thirties. Always clean-shaven, prim, proper, and with a snobbish nose that he uses to judge everyone.
“How long have you been working with Jonathan?”
“Around ten years,” he says without lifting his head.
“That’s a long time.”
“Probably.”
“Do you like working for him?”
“Yes. He’s efficient.”
“Efficient?”
“Gets things done no matter what the method.”
“There’s another word for that — brutal.”
Harris lifts a shoulder. “Fear is a good motivator for humans.”
Ugh. He sounds so much like Jonathan. Machiavellian, with few to no morals, and cold. No wonder he likes working for him.