Chapter 143 The Queen of nothing

Chapter 143 The Queen of nothing


~MONICA'S POV~

The plastic bag from the corner store dug into my fingers, heavy with cheap canned food and bottled water.

I kept my head down, the hood of my black sweatshirt pulled low over my forehead. My hair....once a glossy, expensive blonde bob....was now a jagged, box-dyed black mess that smelled like chemicals. 

I looked like a shadow. I felt like a rat.

A car backfired on the main road.

I flinched so hard I nearly dropped the bag, my heart blasting against my ribs. I whipped my head around, scanning the street. 

Was it Richard? Was it Alexander's security team? Calm down, I told myself. You're a ghost.

I turned the corner toward the motel, walking fast.

BAM.

A shoulder slammed into mine. I stumbled, losing my grip on the bag. It hit the ground with a wet crunch. A bottle of juice burst, soaking the box of crackers.

"Watch where you're going, lady!" a man shouted, not even breaking stride.

"You watch where...." I started to bark, but the words died in my throat. I couldn't make a scene. I couldn't draw attention.

"Damn it," I hissed under my breath.

I crouched down to recover what I could. The juice was pooling in a pothole filled with rainwater. As I reached for a can of soup, I froze.

My reflection stared back at me from the dirty puddle.

The woman in the water looked haggard. Dark circles bruised her eyes. Her skin was pale and splotchy. Her lips were chapped.

"Is this it?" I whispered to the muddy water. "Is this what Monica Sterling has been reduced to?"

Two weeks ago, I was the lady who brought men to their knees with a single look. I wore silk and diamonds. Now? I was kneeling in gutter water, picking up discount crackers.

Anger, hot and white, flooded through me. I snatched up the remaining items and stood, kicking the broken bottle into the street.

"They will pay," I muttered, marching toward the neon sign of The Pines Motel. "Richard. Claire. Alexander. They will all pay."

I hated this place. Two weeks of hiding in a room that smelled of mold and stale cigarettes. Two weeks of jumping at shadows. 

My father had kept his promise—cash arrived in envelopes slipped under the door—but money couldn't buy peace of mind.

I pushed through the glass doors of the motel lobby.

The receptionist, a girl with too much gum in her mouth and not enough brain cells, looked up. She smirked when she saw the stain on my jeans.

"Nice look, Princess," she drawled. "Going for the 'drowned rat' aesthetic today?"

Her coworker, a greasy man leaning against the counter, snickered.

My spine stiffened. "I would ask for the manager," I said coldly, "but I assume he's busy ignoring the black mold in the bathrooms."

"Manager's out," the girl popped her gum. "And hey, if you don't like it, you can leave. We don't need your attitude scaring away the roaches."

They laughed. Openly.

My hands clenched into fists. I was public enemy number one here. I treated them like the help they were, and they hated me for it. 

They only tolerated me because my father's cash was always on time.

I ignored them, channeling the ghost of the woman I used to be, and walked past the desk with my head high. I didn't stop until I was inside Room 12 with the deadbolt thrown.

I slammed the bag onto the wobbly table. I needed to get out of these clothes. I felt dirty. Contaminated by the world outside.

I stripped off the hoodie, the jeans, the cheap underwear. I walked into the tiny bathroom and turned the shower on as hot as it would go. 

I stood under the spray, scrubbing my skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of eyes watching me.

When I stepped out, wrapped in a thin, scratchy towel, there was a soft knock at the door.

Three taps. Pause. Two taps.

My pulse jumped. Not from fear this time. From need.

I checked the peephole.

It was Jake. The night maintenance boy. Nineteen years old, stupid, and built like a laborer.

I opened the door. He stood there in his gray uniform, looking at me with hungry, hooded eyes. He knew the drill.

"You called?" he asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

"I need stress relief," I said, locking the door behind him.

I dropped the towel.

Jake's eyes darkened as they swept over my naked body. He didn't say a word. He just walked over, grabbed my waist with rough, calloused hands, and backed me against the wall.

"You're tense," he muttered, burying his face in my neck.

"Shut up," I commanded. "Just do your job."

He groaned and kissed me—hard, sloppy, unrefined. It wasn't love. It wasn't even passion. It was a transaction. I needed to feel power over someone, anyone, and he was the only one available.

He lifted me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and carried me to the bed. He threw me down onto the cheap mattress, tearing at his belt.

"You like this?" he grunted, pushing inside me with zero finesse.

"Harder," I hissed, digging my nails into his shoulders. "Make me forget where I am."

He pounded into me, the bedsprings squeaking a rhythmic protest. I closed my eyes and pretended. Pretended I was back in the penthouse. 

Pretended I was the Queen of Manhattan. Pretended I was anyone but a fugitive in a roadside motel.

When he finished, collapsing on top of me with a heavy breath, I shoved him off immediately.

"Get up," I said. "You're heavy."

Jake rolled off, pulling his pants up. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me as I reached for my purse and pulled out a wad of cash.

"You know," he said, watching me count the bills. "You talk in your sleep sometimes."

I froze. "What?"

"You talk about your old life. About being Mrs. Blackwood." He smirked. "You never get tired of living in the past, do you?"

"It's not the past," I snapped, tossing the money at him. "It's who I am. I am a Queen, Jake. Even if people in this dump treat me like dirt."

"Maybe they treat you like dirt because you act like it," he said, pocketing the cash. "If you just apologized once in a while... admitted you aren't better than us... maybe the girl at the front desk wouldn't spit in your coffee."

I scoffed. "A Sterling never apologizes. And I certainly don't apologize to the help."

"Right." He stood up, buttoning his shirt. "Whatever you say, Princess. See you next time."

He left. I sat on the bed, naked and shivering. The sex hadn't fixed anything. It just left me feeling emptier.

I needed a way out. I grabbed the burner phone from the nightstand. I dialed my father.

It rang once.

"What?" His voice was a harsh whisper.

"Hello to you too, Daddy," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Why are you calling?" Panic laced his tone. "Do you know what time it is? Do you know the trouble you've gotten this family into? The FBI has a tap on the main line. If they trace this..."

"I don't care," I cut him off. "You seem to have forgotten about me out here."

"Forgotten?" He laughed bitterly. "How can I forget? Every time I look at my bank statement, I see the money bleeding out to keep you hidden."

"I hate it here," I said, looking around the dingy room. "The walls are thin. The food is garbage. I need to move."

"It's not a good time to be picky, Monica! We are under a microscope thanks to your incompetence!"

"My incompetence?" I grabbed the newspaper I had bought at the store and smoothed it out on my lap. "Then explain this."

I read the headline aloud. "Sterling Corps Appoints New Vice President of Operations amidst Rumors of Restructuring."

"What is going on, Daddy?" I hissed. "Are you planning on replacing me? Who is this new VP?"

Silence on the line. Then, background noise. Shouting.

"Dad?"

"Listen to me," he said, his voice hurried. "I had to make a deal. The board was restless."

"A deal with who?"

"It doesn't matter!"

"Get me out of the country," I demanded. "I don't care about the board. I don't care about the VP. Get me a plane. Tonight."

"Are you crazy?" he shouted. "How am I supposed to do that? You are a wanted criminal! Your face is on every watch list in the state!"

"Find a way!" I screamed back. "You're the patriarch! You're supposed to fix this! I am in this situation because of you! Because you told me to go after Richard!"

The commotion on the other end got louder. I heard a door slam. Voices yelling "Federal Agents!"

"Dad?"

"They're here," he whispered. "Don't call again."

Click.

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone. "Dad? Dad!" He hung up on me. He abandoned me. I screamed, a raw sound of pure frustration, and slammed the phone against the wall. It cracked, the screen spider-webbing.

I ran a hand through my hair, pulling at the roots. I was trapped. My father was being raided. Richard was gone. I had no one.

"Owen," I whispered. "Where the hell are you?"

I needed him. I needed his muscle, his contacts, his ability to make problems disappear. Just where the hell did that bastard disappear to when I needed him most?

I looked at the cracked phone on the floor. I was alone.

And for the first time, I realized I might not make it out of this room alive.