Chapter 4 Responsibility

He's following me.

I should let my father know. I should call T.J., who is the head of my family's security.

I don't know how I'm getting away without minimal security in the first place. I managed to convince my family that I don't need a bodyguard following me around everywhere, and I don't, in my opinion. I drive everywhere I need to go, even if that sometimes means I'm stuck in traffic. What happened on that side street was a once-off thing.

And now I'm paying for it.

I know it's him on the sleek, black motorcycle that drives behind me every night after I finish at the theater. I know it's him speeding away after I drive into my garage.

He knows where I live. He touched me inappropriately. I should be scared. I should run to the police.

Yet, I do none of those things.

Because for the first time in my life, I'm letting the excitement of the unknown overwhelm me.

I've always played by the rules. I've been perfect my whole life. So perfect that it's suffocating.

Now I get to be someone else.

Someone who is followed, probably stalked, by a murderer.

I'm not perfect.

My creamy skin is tainted, touched by a man whose identity I don't even know.

And I don't even feel guilty about it.

Not even when I walk into the high-class bistro for brunch to meet with my boyfriend's mother.

"Madison!" She gets up when the maitre de leads me to her table. I allow her to fake-kiss my cheeks and hug me lightly. "Oh, you always look so beautiful, even without makeup."

I don't know if that is a jab or a compliment, because in the world of Caroline Cargill, a woman is always presentable.

"I'm going to the theatre straight after brunch, and you know how they smother my face with makeup, so I'm letting my skin breathe." I smile back just as fake.

How have I not gotten tired of all this shit before? Why did I even agree to meet her for brunch?

"You work so hard!" She pats my hand gently. "I hope you don't mind, I ordered your usual grilled chicken salad without the croutons."

I keep the smile on my face, even though I want to stick out my tongue at her like a first grader. I actually would've ordered something with a little bit more energy because I'm going to be dancing for hours.

The thing is, I don't fit into the Cargill image. My family may be rich, but we're considered new money, and if Ben's father didn't need my uncle's money for his campaigns, I would have never been accepted into this society.

"Benedict told me you've been so busy, you hardly have time for him." Caroline takes a sip of her mimosa, which I know is more champagne than orange juice. I would get drunk too if I had to look like I have a stick up my ass the whole time.

"Well, both Ben and I are working on our careers right now, so that's a given." I greatly accept the water that the waiter places in front of me. "Plus, the show's run ends in two days, then I will have more time."

"He mentioned something about your ankle?"

My ears burn at the words coming out of her mouth. Fucking Benedict! I love the guy, I really do, but sometimes he divulges information to his fucking mother that I don't want her to know about. It makes me not want to trust him anymore.

It makes the memory of him and me being fucking teenagers, head over heels in love, become blurry.

Because where is that guy?

The one who would carry me if I complained that my toes hurt from new pointes. The one who told me that he admires my ambition? Because right now he looks like a pussy, and I find it very unattractive.

"My ankle is fine." The lie comes out smoothly. I will not let this woman see me sweat, ever.

She pats my hand again like I'm her fucking dog. "He's just worried about you, and he's just so busy that you maybe might feel he's neglecting you."

I slowly extract my hand from underneath hers. "Well, I don't, because I have my own career."

My words have the desired reaction, because her mask slightly slips, before she schools it again.

Women like Caroline Cargill have built their lives on the careers of their husbands and children. They are more concerned about the success of a name than themselves, portraying an image of class and elegance.

But it's not difficult to see underneath the fucking diamonds and pearls. They're just scavengers like the rest of the human population, and I'll be damned if I allow this woman to turn me into a carbon copy of her.

"Benedict is very stressed right now." She takes an unmeasured sip of her drink, not very lady-like. "As his girlfriend, you are expected to stand by his side. You know he's talking about marriage, right?"

Everyone is talking about marriage right now, both his parents and mine. Along with the fucking public waiting for some sort of announcement that we'll be tying the knot. Some tabloids have already speculated that it will be the wedding of the century.

What have I gotten myself into?

Do I see myself getting married to Ben?

The simple answer is yes.

Because I still see him as that boy in school who told me I'm the most beautiful girl he's ever seen when a fellow dancer commented on my body shape. He's the same boy who bravely faced not only my father, but my uncle and cousins as well. Even when he was warned by my cousins to stay far away from me or they will break his arms, he still showed up every single day until the

y relented.

But as I look at the perfectly coiffed hair of his mother and her designer shirt and skirt, I realize that I may not be the same girl anymore.