Crowned In Blood

Chapter 1

1

Catalina

I went from being an abused doll to a caged prisoner at eighteen.

He increased the guards, forced me into online college, and monitored every message and email I sent.

Had he found out about my plans to escape? Uncovered the jewelry and cash I'd hidden away? Seen my search history? Realized how much I truly hated him?

But if he had, he would've beaten me within an inch of my life.

Then I overheard him telling a guard he had to "keep me separated from others" so I would stay "pure and moldable."

He wanted me isolated.

The bastard.

But I was safe. For now.

No matter how angry I was, I couldn't leave yet. I still needed his signature for everything—bank accounts, purchases—everything I needed to survive.

It didn't matter if I had cash or could pay in full. Companies wanted a legal guardian's approval to cover their ass. So, I waited.

And now that I’d turned twenty-one it was finally here. In one short day, I'd finally be free.

I would have to attend the lavish birthday party my father was throwing for me. Yet another political scheme asking people to fund his campaign while showing me off to someone's rich son. But tomorrow, I'd make him an offer he couldn't refuse.

For years, I'd been asked to do interviews and exclusives, but my father had never allowed it. However, now that I had a degree in political science and economics, the media speculated whether I'd follow in my father's footsteps, and he’d finally permitted me to give them an answer.

I was more likely to burn his house down with his corpse inside.

But I'd convince my father it was the life I wanted.

My plan was already falling into place. I'd donated to the Center of Gentle Love and Hope—a domestic violence non-profit organization—and agreed to set aside time for a tour. Afterwards, I'd ask to visit their other locations far from New York City—and my father—and never return.

It was a simple plan, but it was the only one that would work.

The media knew me. It wasn't like I could just change my name or appearance and disappear. But with my own awards, successes, and PR, the press would be all over me, meaning my father couldn't be.

I'd have to keep up the heroic senator’s daughter act a little longer, but I'd be able to go home feeling safe each night, at peace, knowing I'd helped both myself and others.

I stood, checking my appearance in the mirror. My dark-brown hair shined and bounced, the curled ends brushing the top of my ass. My makeup was light—as my father had ordered—mascara to call attention to my long eyelashes and thin black eyeliner to enhance my dark eyes—but the crimson lipstick I'd chosen was all me. My little act of rebellion.

My long, plum gown of lace and silk highlighted my too-thin body but accentuated my natural curves, the high slit coming to mid-thigh, elongating my legs.

I was a perfect blend of elegance and seduction—my forced role for the night.

I practiced my smile and greetings in the mirror until they were flawless. Then, before the grief of my life could consume me, I shoved it away.

You're almost there. In less than a day, you'll be gone.

My party—more of an art gala with me as the main showpiece—had so far gone off without a hitch.

My father was the picture of perfection in his perfectly tailored black suit, gold watch and cufflinks. Not a single strand of graying, dark-brown hair out of place.

He gave a grand introduction, professing how beautiful I was and how proud he was of me before wishing me all the happiness in the world.

Managing to force a warm smile, I issued a heartfelt thank you. Even shed a small tear, like the Oscar-worthy actress I’d trained myself to be.

I dabbed the tear away with a napkin, and he grabbed my shoulders, kissing my cheeks with a big smile. His blue eyes lowered to my dark-red lipstick and flashed. A warning that I would be punished for defying his orders.

Good. The pain would be worth it for that small piece of control.

His grip on my waist was tight as he nearly dragged me to meet his guests. If I wasn’t used to it, I'd have tripped and fallen flat on my face.

When he left to attend a meeting, the vultures descended, trying their best to play matchmaker.

I'd rather die before marrying anyone here.

My rounds finally done, I grabbed a flute of champagne and a few stuffed mushroom hors d'oeuvres before stealing a moment in a secluded corner.

I was exhausted. It wasn’t exertion, but something deeper, darker. I'd spent my life holding onto the edge of a cliff, a fingertip away from falling into the abyss, and now, I was starting to slip.

All I had left was myself, and I swore I wouldn't lose who I was to these people, to this life.

But as I looked around the room, rage and hate consumed me. They deserved a taste of the brutality I endured just as much as my father did.

Yes, my father caused my pain and despair, but these people played a part as well. They paid him. They paved his way, bought his every word. Believed his every lie.

There's no doubt my father did and condoned illegal things over the years, and these people knew that. But they didn't care. All they wanted was another dollar sign, another paycheck, another source for power. But what about my power? What about my voice? What about my life?

Why shouldn't I let loose? Rain hell down upon them and show them what years of abuse could do to the heart? To the soul?

I was ruined, destroyed. There were cracks in me that would never be filled. And all I could do was try to cover them and ignore the violence and cruelty underneath. But it was there, festering, waiting to spring free.

Taking a deep breath, I exhaled. In these moments I scared myself, not knowing the lengths I would go for vengeance.

I stared at the champagne, rolling the flute between my fingertips. What would it

feel like to break it in my hand and use the shards as a weapon? To experience the same raw, unabashed, chaotic freedom every person in this room but me had enjoyed? How many people could I hurt in the ways I'd been hurt?

Could I kill Malcolm Richards—the man who had been undressing me with his eyes since I was thirteen? Would his wife Cathy cry over his death, or would she use his life insurance policy to take lavish trips with the pool boy she was fucking on the side?

Maybe I could stab Shawn Cruz. He'd certainly deserve it. All he got was a light slap on the wrist after his drunk driving caused the death of a father of three, because he was the District Attorney’s son.

None of the people here were innocent, and perhaps, neither was I. But as long as I kept myself under control, I could be better than them.

"You don't seem to be enjoying your party."

The deep voice jarred me and I looked up to find an unfamiliar man gazing at me intensely. He was over six feet tall, with long brown hair that touched his wide shoulders. But it was his eyes that unnerved me the most.

He looked at me like he could consume me, pick me apart, clean to the bone. Like he could see straight into my broken soul. It scared me to think of what secrets he might unearth if I gave him the chance.

So I didn't. Instead, I put on my best smile.

"Of course I'm enjoying it. It's a lovely party. My father truly spared no expense."

The corner of his lip tipped into a smirk before he held a glass of what smelled like brandy to his lips. "You're good. I'm sure you know that. But if anyone here pulled their head out of their asses long enough to pay attention to you for more than a minute, they'd know you were lying."

I almost choked on my champagne.

Mischief danced in the man's rich, brown eyes, and for a moment, I was shocked, until that feeling quickly turned to fear. I glanced around the room, scared that someone—or worse, my father—had caught my mistake.

"Don't worry, no one's looking at you."

He was right. No one had seen my blunder with the champagne nor my shock.

I hated that he'd immediately known what I was afraid of. He was too close, too… accurate, and it knocked me off balance.

His eyes held mine as he stroked his glass with one finger. A slow, continuous caress, as though he had all the time in the world. A sensual touch, something that made my pulse soar.

I took a slow breath, collecting myself. "Why were you?"

"Watching you?"

I nodded.

"Because you're the most gorgeous woman in this room."

His frankness made my cheeks heat, as his finger still stroked his glass. His touch was focused, intimate, as if he were caressing me .

I was used to the games, to people trying to manipulate me. I had to be posh, mannered, cultured —all things this stranger didn't seem to be at that moment.

I had no doubt he could put on that fa?ade and perform it to utter perfection. He carried an air of mirth and cold calculation, yet was charming and confident, like the beauty of a glacier before it broke apart, causing a tsunami that killed anyone in its path.

He struck me as someone whose every word was purposeful. Someone who had come into their power and could wield it completely. It left me in both awe and envy of him, and it was sexy as hell.

How incredible it must be to have that sort of freedom.

His gaze darkened the longer he stared at me, like he was appreciating me, savoring my presence.

A strange warmth built in my core, and for a moment, I wished I could freeze time. He looked at me as though he saw me for who I was, who I had the potential to be.

It left me vulnerable to the cravings of my inner child, to the desire to be wanted , to be acknowledged. To be loved as I was, not who I pretended to be.

But I wasn't a child nor a princess. And he wasn't a prince. This wasn't a fairy tale, and I knew better than to be so na?ve.

I rolled my shoulders back, ready to play and win whatever game he had up his sleeve. It didn't matter how attractive he was; this man was like everyone else. He was here, after all, which meant he knew my father. And one did not navigate the waters of Simon Herrera without an equally deceptive compass.

But before I could say anything, his phone vibrated. He withdrew his eyes from me, and the loss of his attention made me feel like the air was being sucked from the room.

He sighed. "Unfortunately, I have to take this." The weight of his gaze settled on me for one more moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was a low whisper. "Happy birthday, Catalina. May all your dreams come true."

He turned away, and it wasn't until he slipped out the back door, I realized I'd never gotten his name.