Scorn

Follow me on socials - Facebook Tiktok The Players of Kingston Valley U Series Angry Knight Devious Gambit Bitter Saint Brutal Prince Other Books by P. Mulholland Kings of Cade Series Hate Bait Hate Games Hate Score City Slickers Series Broken Cold Blooded The Fixer The Boss This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents other than those clearly in the public domain are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission from the publisher. CONTENTS Trigger Warnings Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty One Chapter Thirty Two Chapter Thirty Three Chapter Thirty Four Chapter Thirty Five Chapter Thirty Six Chapter Thirty Seven Chapter Thirty Eight Chapter Thirty Nine Trigger Warnings Dear Reader, Please note this Romance is Dark and contains scenes that some readers may find upsetting including violence, murder, explicit sex scenes, coarse language and drug use. Proceed with caution. Many thanks P. Mulholland xx 1 “Midnight blue like the song,” my mom tells me for the third time in two minutes while I hold my bridesmaid dress against me, and she takes a lock of my red hair to drape it over the fabric. “It’s perfect with the color of your hair. Midnight blue.” “You’re not going to sing it are you?” I hope. “Did you know your Aunt Bea had hair this color before she decided to dye it black? It’s a crime, really.” “Yes, I had noticed the black stains in the bathroom sink.” This is mom trying to make small talk by stating the obvious and relaying already given information. She purses her lips and looks away to hide the displeasure of the fact that I chose to run and it was Aunt Bea that I ran to. They were messy, ugly times and I couldn’t stay in Addington. “Well,” she says, brushing invisible lint from her pale pink Alexander McQueen suit pants, “it’s all in the past now isn’t it?” Yes and no. When I landed back down on American soil, I made the decision to be a yes-girl for my mom’s special day. Whatever she wants me to do I’ll do it without complaint. I’m not normally this compliant, but it’s not about me, it’s about my mom who is marrying the man of her dreams, she tells me, and is deeply in love. Tomorrow morning, I fly to Chicago and then catch my long-haul direct flight of 16 painful hours in economy class back to New Zealand, where I’ve been living for the past three years and ten months. But for now, I’m a yes-girl. Seven days of gritting my teeth, politely nodding my head, and refraining from having an opinion is almost over. She cups my cheek with her small hand and inspects my scar with those credulous pale blue eyes as I suppress a flinch from the sting of iciness from her palm. For as long as I can remember, mom always had unbearably cold hands, even in summer. “I’m certain Dalia can hide this under the right concealer.” My scar is where I draw a line. “No. I don’t mind if people see it.” “They’ll ask questions. I’ve already stretched the truth-” Panicked shouting outside pulls her attention away from me, and she steps to the window to see what all the fuss is about. We’re on the third floor of this enormous, spacious house and yet the walls are closing in, squeezing tight to snap my ribs. In the halls and living spaces the eyes of deer, boar and buffalo heads follow me wherever I go and I’m too afraid to touch anything for fear I’d break it. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t relax here. “Oh no,” mom gasps, clasping her hands together to stop them from trembling. A very large marquee is being erected in the garden and it sounds to me as if they’ve had a little accident. I check the time on my phone. 9.26am. The ceremony is at 1.15pm followed by the reception and it’s all over. I can survive this day. Peering over my mom’s shoulder at the expansive greenery for as far as the eye can see, I take deep breath to suppress the urge to escape these walls and head outside. The garden is the size of a football field, and beyond the tall, security monitored fence is a national forest with the golf course sliced through the middle. Mr. Huntsman owns the golf course, in fact, I think Mr. Huntsman owns everything including the clouds, rain and Timbuktu. “You know you can still change your mind,” I say as her forehead furrows in concern at the misbehaving marquee and the calamity of people trying to stop it from collapsing altogether. “What on earth do you mean?” “Call the wedding off.” “Don’t be absurd.” “Last chance,” I tease. My mom is nothing like me and I mean that in every sense of the word. In personality and looks, I’m more like Aunt Bea. Mom is slim around 5ft5, deadly straight strawberry blond hair that is always neat and elegant and her clothes fit her frame perfectly. Me, I’m 5ft8, athletic frame, freckles, a violent mop of red hair that’s not only abundant but each strand is almost like fishing nylon. On a good day, my hair is a mess. On