Thorne Princess(61)

Specifically, high-end prostitutes. I think he wanted to distort our view on love and marriage. There was no need for him to go the extra mile. One look at his miserable marriage to the therapist—Mrs. Moruzzi—who was hardly home, and had a lover who lived in Canada where she visited frequently, did the job.

Whenever Mrs. Moruzzi was away, he took his anger out on us. Beating was out of the question. We were all bigger and stronger than he was. Instead, he made us fight each other. For food. For money. For women.

Over the years, Lawrence, Tom, and I suffered broken ribs, cracked bones, fractured fingers, and so on, all just to survive, while Moruzzi watched on, smugly enjoying the show.

It was clear we functioned as a workforce for him. It was also clear he was never going to give us a chance to become anything more than his little pawns.

When Lawrence was seventeen and I was fifteen, he started to become antsy.

“We need an out from Moruzzi. What do we do?”

I was the first one to bring it up.

“We kill him.”





Ransom was right.

I had to get a head start on the speech if I wanted to know it by heart by the time Craig and Hera were wed.

I gathered the papers and skimmed the words, my pupils frantic, my heart pounding.

I wasn’t illiterate. I knew how to read. It was just hard to make sense of the words sometimes. It took me an excruciatingly long time to read a simple paragraph. What should have been seconds, usually required minutes for me, sometimes hours, and by the time I reached the end, I oftentimes forgot the content of the text I was reading.

For instance, I would read “light” as “might” or “white” as “what” and “sound” as “ground”. Words mixed together, blending into one another on the page, and I had to concentrate until my brain hurt to read one simple article.

Which was why I opted out of reading whenever possible.

Well, I didn’t have the luxury of escaping reading right now.

I read out loud. It was a trick Mrs. Archibald, one of my teachers, had taught me in second grade.

“Things will make more sense if you speak the words out loud.”

Turned out she was right, although my parents politely asked her not to butt into their business—and my education—when she gave them a call about my struggles with reading.

Now, fourteen years after Mrs. Archibald had been let go for overstepping (I never got over the guilt, and never forgave my parents for this), I stood up and paced my hotel room, trying my hand at reading the text typed out for me, no doubt by one of my father’s speechwriters.

“Dog…goom…g…” I rubbed at my forehead. Cold sweat formed over my skin. “Goo—good evening very…everything…eve…everyone.” I stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. “Good evening, everyone.”

One sentence. That was a start.

See? It’s not so bad. Only forty more to go.

I had a decent memory. I could do it. I repeated the words out loud, inking them to my brain.

“Good evening, everyone.”

“Good evening, everyone.”

“Good evening, everyone.”

Simple enough. Then I continued. “Lew…Let’s…we…well…welc…ome? Welcome t…t…to…”

I stopped, flinging the papers onto the bed, letting out a frustrated growl. Why couldn’t they record me the speech? They knew I could quickly memorize things if I could hear them. I was good at that, aural learning. I listened to things all the time. That was how I got by. But the answer was clear. My parents pretended that my problem was a figment of my imagination, not a learning disability. Like I could read just fine, but chose not to. Gathering the papers in a huff, I tried again. “Welcome t…to…the joint…the jet…the joining of…”

“Hera and Craig,” a voice finished behind me.

I jumped, slapping a hand over my chest.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Ransom was standing at the door, showered, freshly shaven, and oozing sex appeal in casual cargo pants and a black V-neck.

What must he be thinking?

That you’re a dumbass or high. Exactly what he thought ten seconds ago.

He pushed off the doorjamb, advancing toward me.

“You’re dyslexic?”

“Get out of my room, Random.” I pushed at his chest frantically, hysterically.

Why would he say something like that?

“You are.” He gathered the pages, frowning as he skimmed through them. “You can’t read.”

“Yes, I can.”

“You can, but it’s hard, and frustrating for you.”

“It’s fine, I’m pretty,” I snorted out bitterly.

He looked up from the pages, his frown deepening. His eyes were so very green, his nose so very straight, and his mouth so very kissable. Again, I thanked my lucky stars for my shaky confidence. It didn’t allow me to consider anyone romantically without chiding myself.

“Are you undiagnosed?”

“I need glasses, that’s all.” I knotted my arms over my chest, glaring hard at him. “I’m not dyslexic.”

“Yeah, you are. Either that or you have a pervasive intellectual disability, and that can’t be it. Lack of intelligence has never been your issue.”