Page 9 of Twisted Control

My friends still can’t wrap their heads around it. Every single time the subject comes up, their eyes go wide and they hit me with the same question: “How do you just walk away from a billionaire?”

I always shrug and give them the same answer: “No idea.”

But the truth is, I know exactly why she left.

Dad really didn’t take her leaving well.

He basically tried to erase every trace of her from the house. He fired all the staff we’d had for years, the ones who felt more like family than employees. Then he replaced them with a never-ending revolving door of new companies: different cleaners, different chefs, different gardeners every few months.

It was like he wanted the house to forget she’d ever existed.

I tug the sleeves of Drew’s sweater down over my hands as I approach the front door. Dad definitely noticed I was gone last night. But with any luck, I can slip inside, shower again, and change before he sees me looking like this.

I think about the look on his face yesterday, right before he shut himself in his office. He’s never looked at me like that before—cold, distant, disappointed. But then again, I’ve never made a mistake this catastrophic.

I slip inside as quietly as I can, kicking off my heels in the foyer before padding toward the stairs. The house feels too big and too empty these days with Mom gone, and Finn’s away on yet another business trip.

I’m halfway up the stairs when Dad’s voice slices through the quiet.

“Where were you last night?”

I freeze, one hand gripping the banister. A tiny wince escapes before I can stop it. Slowly, I turn around.

He’s standing in the living room doorway in a charcoal-gray suit, every inch the picture of silver-haired authority. At fifty-five, Dad is still immaculately put together—not a hair out of place, not a single wrinkle in his suit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look even slightly rumpled.

I walk back down the stairs. He closes the distance, his eyes sweeping over my dress and Drew’s sweater with obvious disapproval.

“Is that a man’s sweater?” he asks.

“No,” I say, the lie sliding out way too easily. “It’s mine. Oversized is in right now.” I keep my voice light, and the lies just keep tumbling out. “I was with Jasmine. We had dinner, then watched a movie at her place. It got late, and I know what you always say about taking a cab home alone at night, so I crashed there. I didn’t want to wake you with a text this morning.”

Dad studies me for a long, heavy beat. Then he lets out a slow, tired breath.

“I was worried sick. These threats are getting worse.”

“Threats?”

“The comments online.”

I relax, just a fraction. “I’ve always gotten those. Comes with the territory.”

I was one of the first real influencers. People like to pretend my success was some grand achievement, but we all know the truth: being wealthy and beautiful opens doors most people never even glimpse. The price is the envy that follows. I’ve been called every vile thing imaginable for years. Still, these new comments are uglier. More personal.

“It’s just the internet,” I murmur.

“It’s a threat to your life, Grace,” he says sharply. “You put yourself on television. This isn’t your usual social-media nonsense. It’s different now.” His voice hardens with that familiar steel. “I’m handling it. The worst of them are being traced. We’ll see how brave these cowards are when they can’t hide behind a keyboard. In the meantime, you’re deactivating everything. I don’t want these people knowing anything about you.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

“If I deactivate, I’m basically telling them they win. That they got to me.”

“Who cares what they think?” he snaps. “I want you offline. At least until this blows over.”

I open my mouth to argue, but one look at his face tells me it’s pointless. I nod instead.

It’s not as if sponsorships will be lining up anytime soon anyway. Still, I had hoped to reach out to a few of the girls from the show. Colette, the other finalist, had been oddly kind. A little strange—always talking about moon cycles and energy—but it felt like she could see straight through me. Like she knew I’d been pretending to be fine the entire time when I was anything but. Yet she never used it against me. She simply hugged me harder or squeezed my hand, as if she understood exactly how I felt. I’d always pretended to tolerate it, but she really helped get me through. I’d like to keep in touch with her.