Control

Copyright © 2022 by Melissa Cassera and Mogul Scarf Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected] No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, Mogul Scarf Productions, Inc. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Book Cover by Damonza Editing: Dawn Ius, Jessica McKelden 2023 Edition Print ISBN: 979-8-9873878-0-1 Published in the United States of America Contents Chapter One: Natalie Chapter Two: Henry Chapter Three: Natalie Chapter Four: Henry Chapter Five: Natalie Chapter Six: Henry Chapter Seven: Natalie Chapter Eight: Henry Chapter Nine: Natalie Chapter Ten: Henry Chapter Eleven: Natalie Chapter Twelve: Henry Chapter Thirteen: Natalie Chapter Fourteen: Henry Chapter Fifteen: Natalie Chapter Sixteen: Henry Chapter Seventeen: Natalie Chapter Eighteen: Henry Chapter Nineteen: Natalie Chapter Twenty: Henry Chapter Twenty-One: Natalie Chapter Twenty-Two: Henry Chapter Twenty-Three: Natalie Chapter Twenty-Four: Henry Chapter Twenty-Five: Natalie Chapter Twenty-Six: Henry Chapter Twenty-Seven: Natalie Chapter Twenty-Eight: Henry Chapter Twenty-Nine: Natalie Chapter Thirty: Henry Chapter Thirty-One: Natalie Chapter Thirty-Two: Henry Chapter Thirty-Three: Natalie Chapter Thirty-Four: Henry Chapter Thirty-Five: Natalie Chapter Thirty-Six: Henry Chapter Thirty-Seven: Natalie Chapter Thirty-Eight: Henry Chapter Thirty-Nine: Natalie Chapter Forty: Henry Chapter Forty-One: Natalie Chapter Forty-Two: Henry Bonus Chapter: Chapter Forty-Three: Wes Bonus Chapter: Chapter Forty-Four: Natalie Chapter One: Natalie Acknowledgements About the Author Chapter One NATALIE Breathe. Anxiety coils through me. I peer out from backstage at this ridiculous spectacle, knocking my head against a twelve-foot flower tunnel of white roses and wisteria. Petals shower to the ground. My eyes scan the room, praying no one noticed me bump into it, and scoop up the stray petals, shaking a few from my hair in the process. I can’t believe they designed this fancy tunnel for the Lockwood student election. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. Lockwood is a bit like posh purgatory—a one-year transitionary school for “offspring of the elite.” Not my words—that’s actually what it says on the website. Most of us grew up with some type of privilege and a direct path to an Ivy, but turning eighteen and getting to spend your final year of high school at Lockwood is a special privilege only afforded to one hundred and seventy five students each year. Except we don’t really learn anything or do anything that special. This is more of a well-branded holding cell before we head off to college. I glance over at my boyfriend, Jack—about to swear in as president of our class. He recites his speech in the corner, murmuring the words even I have memorized after hearing it so many times. And here I am by his side, like some dutiful political wife. Except, I’m not his wife—I’m his girlfriend. And not exactly by choice. We were practically set up by our fathers in preschool. Pretty sure they ship our romance more than we do. Ugh, what am I even doing here? On the other side of the stage, my fellow students shuffle into their seats. A live orchestra readies in the corner, because of course they didn’t want to use a student band. Lockwood spends our $100,000 tuitions to bring in the MET Orchestra from Carnegie Hall. As if there’s nothing better to do with our parents’ money. Hurricane relief? Foreign aid? Nope. Let’s blow all the money on an orchestra for a student election. I pluck a stray curly hair from my black uniform jacket and flick it onto the near-spotless floor. Rumor is that the previous uniforms were white Ralph Lauren, but so many kids spilled lattes, liquor, or got period blood on them, they decided to switch to Tom Ford black. Crystal-embossed wool peplum jackets for the girls. Itchy as fuck. I pluck another brown hair from my jacket and start to walk away. Jack clasps my hand, hard. “Where are you going?” “Nowhere,” I mumble. Jack has that intimidating presence that makes you immediately feel like you’ve done something wrong when he talks to you. “I’m about to go on,” he says, still clinging to my arm like I’m his lifeline. I guess maybe I am. “I need you here.” Words like this should feel romantic, and maybe they would if Jack were that kind of guy. He’s not, and instead of sounding sweet, he’s bossy. I sigh. I wish I was one of those girls who slaps a guy for bossing me around. I even picture myself doing it sometimes. My hand raising. A hard smack across Jack’s perfect cheekbone. Watching the shock and embarrassment on his face. I giggle out loud at the thought. “What’s so funny?” I shake my head. “Nothing.” Jack shoots me a pissy look, like everything is totally my fault and why can’t I just get it together and be there for him. I immediately feel guilty for shitting all over his day, even though I really didn’t do anything wrong. I just had some thoughts. I study his face. He’s already back to reciting his speech, desperate to perfect every word. I let out a long, deep sigh—sure, he’s being annoying, but this is his big day. And I guess he’s not that bad of a boyfriend. I should focus on his good qualities, right? Maybe make a list… Okay, I admit it. He’s gorgeous, in that preppy, country club kinda way. He’s got a bright future, no doubt about that. He’s tall and athletic. He’s smart, sometimes—when he doesn’t let his ego get in the way of learning. He’s also rude. Cocky. And he couldn’t care less about my future and what I want. Whoops. I guess those aren’t his most endearing qualities. Oh, and he’s obsessed with Josephine. Yeah, that. I look out from behind the curtain again.