Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
A loud urgent knock interrupts my thoughts, and I drop the package onto my lap. “Riley?” my mother calls from outside the door. “What are you doing? We have to leave in five minutes.” Her voice is cold and stern.
Wait…what?
“What?” I ask, loud enough for her to hear me through the door. “Leave, where?”
She bangs on the door again. “Open this door right now!”
My eyes grow wide, and panic surges through me. Jumping off my bed, I drag everything down, hiding the tray and all the trash from my binge-eating under the bed.
I can’t let my mother see this.
She can never know.
No one can ever know.
This is my ugly secret.
I quickly rub a hand over my face, catching any leftover crumbs to make sure I am presentable enough for Nora Johnson.
When I open the door for her, she barely spares me a glance, pushing past me to stomp into my room. “Why are you not dressed yet?”
Confused, I can only stare at her. My stomach is bloated, and I feel a rumbling deep inside me. I’ve never had someone walk in on me while I was binge-eating. And I’ve also never had someone interrupt me before I can purge.
Blood roars between my ears, and I feel sick.
“Riley! Are you listening to me?”
I can barely focus on my mother’s irritated voice as she speaks to me. “What?”
“How can you forget about the Christmas gala?”
I blink. “I thought it’s tomorrow.”
Her eyes sharpen with a deadly glare. “No, you stupid girl. It’s tonight.”
It’s now that I notice my mother’s attire. She’s wearing a silver evening gown, with her favorite black fur wrap around her shoulders. She has a cloud-pearl embellished clutch in her hands and a heavy diamond necklace around her neck.
She looks posh and elegant — expensive, exactly like the Nora Johnson she’s known as. The perfect image of a rich, billionaire wife.
She stares at me exasperatedly, as if I’m a naughty, unruly child.
“The gala is tonight,” I say blankly. How did I forget such an important event? My father has been mentioning it every chance he gets. The charity gala is the event for him to gather more social connections. He needs all the support he can get since he’s running for Senator.
My mother sighs in frustration before she heads to my walk-in closet and starts rummaging through my various evening gowns.
She walks back out with a plum-colored strapless gown thrown over her right arm and a pair of black heels in her left hand.
I take a step back, shaking my head. My stomach churns with nausea, and I need to get rid of all those calories I forced into my body. The food I consumed was more than what my body can hold, and the desperation to release it claws under my flesh. “I need to use the bathroom first.”
My mother scoffs and grips my elbow. “We don’t have time for this, Riley!” She drags me to my white vanity and forces me to sit down on the plush stool. “Your father is already waiting downstairs and we’re going to be late. You know very well how much your father hates lateness!”
No, she doesn’t understand.
I need to purge, or I won’t make it through the night. The food has settled roughly in the pit of my stomach, and it’s causing me uncomfortable cramps.
“Mom!” I yell, tears burning the back of my eyes. “I need to use the bathroom! Just give me ten minutes, please.”
The image of me bending over the toilet, retching as I dig my fingers down my throat fills my mind. This is what I need right now.
My gaze falls on the scrapes on the backs of my knuckles, and I try to hide my hands in my lap. I know some people can purge without using their fingers, but as much as I’ve tried, I just can’t do that. It’s also the reason why I always keep my nails short, much to my mother’s dislike, to avoid injuring my throat or causing any infections.
My mother’s hand tightens around my arm, and she pinches me, right above my elbow. It stings and I wince. Our eyes meet through the mirror, and her face is flushed with anger. “I’ve had enough of your attitude, young lady. Get undressed, now! We literally only have five minutes to do your hair and makeup.”
I swallow down my nausea and do as I’m told. I am my mother’s dutiful daughter.
Compliant, faithful and docile.
Once I’m dressed, she’s pulling my hair into a neat bun while I try to quickly do my makeup. She studies me through the mirror, and I wonder if she can see all my imperfections, all the ugliness that I keep inside me.
“You are lucky you got your natural beauty from me,” she compliments haughtily, but I know the praise is more for her than me. “Here, use the red lipstick. Bright red lips always complete any look.”