Tonight, however, when she’d slipped into her frisky little negligee with her mouse ears atop her head á la Karen from Mean Girls, her father had hit the roof. Spittle spraying across the room as he’d subjected her to his vicious tirade, the words slut and whore being particular favourites of his, it hadn’t been long before Elodie had felt the sharp sting of his palm collide with her cheek. She’d stood strong, as she always did when he lost his temper, and squared her jaw, stony-faced and seemingly unbothered as he’d wrapped his hand around her bicep and dragged her into the living room to face Maman. The woman who’d endured an agonising 27 hours of labor had simply trembled in her seat before turning her face away from the two of them, too weak to face her little girl. 

Having been sequestered to her bedroom for the night, it had taken no time for Elodie to force open her bedroom window and shimmy her way down the vines that decorated the Moreau exterior. She wouldn’t be made to feel like a prisoner in her own home, nor would she let her bastard father ruin her night. With no phone on hand, feet bare in just her little slip, Elodie had ignored the curious stares of strangers trying to determine whether the fresh bruising on her arms and cheek were makeup or otherwise as she landed herself outside of an apartment she had no business knocking on the door of. 

“Heath? Open up!” she cried out, fist pounding against the wood. She hardly cared if Rebekah was home, deciding that watching her shit her proverbial pants would be less painful than anything Papa had in store. “There’s a sexy girl on your doorstep desperate for attention.”