Scorpion
: Prologue

Every time I start to feel happy, I get a call from my mother.

I haven’t heard from her yet, but I know it’s coming. My freedom never feels truly free because she’s embedded herself in my brain like a tumor.

Mathijs’s voice crackles through the headset as he belts out the song from our favorite band while drumming the cyclic control. In all his enthusiasm, he still keeps steady on the foot pedals, but it still feels like we might fall out of the sky at any second.

Death by helicopter isn’t exactly on my wishlist.

Clutching my phone, I glance at the cockpit to double check nothing has gone out of whack since he started his performance. His dad would have an absolute field day if he knew Mathijs acted like this every time we flew—I suppose that’s why his dad taught me how to fly as well.

Below, the mansions that seem so gigantic in person are nothing more than lumps on the Earth, small and insignificant. Up ahead is the house and the empty space of asphalt out front that Mathijs thought would make a good helipad.

I almost had a damn heart attack when he flew in this morning to visit their family’s vineyard in Paonia. Most boyfriends pick up their girls in a car or a motorcycle. Hell, I remember the days when he’d wait for me to sneak out while my parents weren’t home, then I’d sit on the handlebars of his bike and roll my eyes every time he rang that annoying bell.

No, Mathijs Halenbeek is above all that now. He picks up his girlfriend in a $250K helicopter.

His hand lands on my lap, and I slap it away. “Focus,” I snap.

Chuckling, he palms my thigh despite my protests. “Stop worrying.” He pairs his words with a self-assured smile. “Your parents aren’t meant to be back from Mumbai for another three days. Besides, it’s the weekend, and all the staff who are likely to snitch aren’t working. Your mom will never replace out.”

“I know that. But what I don’t know is how far her crazy is willing to go. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s installed hidden cameras around the house. For all I know, there could be a freaking recording device in my room to hear if Gaya and I are talking shit about her.” My sister and I have gotten so paranoid about it that the only time we dare talk about our family is at school—even then we aren’t confident that Mom hasn’t planted some kind of bug on us.

Plus, it’s becoming increasingly clear that our brother is a goddamn snitch. Gaya has youngest daughter syndrome and is clearly Papa’s favorite, while Mom has undiagnosed BPD and embodies Boy Mom. That leaves me cursed with the dreaded middle child disorder.

“If she replaces out that I’m with you, she’s going to kill me—that’s not an understatement.” I run my hand down my face and grimace at the smell of horse manure, grapevines, and gunpowder—Mom would have a heart attack if she knew I spent all day shooting pegs and riding around on horseback with a boy. “Remember when she hid a metal spoon in the dish and then blamed me when the microwave exploded because I ‘should have looked’ first. As in, she expected me to check if there was a utensil hidden in the curry.” I throw my hands up, exasperated. “That woman is trying to kill me, Mathijs.”

My home looms closer, and so does the impending contact with the woman who spawned me.

“Your mother will not kill you.” He rubs my thigh, turning the control slightly. “She might lock you in a cell, but she won’t kill you.”

I hit his chest. “Not helping.” I check the time and shake my head. “It’s almost five o’clock now, so Mom’s soul will be crawling out of hell and back into her body right about now. I haven’t heard from her in twenty-six hours. Twenty-six.” I hold up my cell. It’s probably her new record. “I’m tempted to get my phone checked to see if it’s broken. That’s the only plausible explanation.”

“Maybe, just maybe, she might be easing off your back.”

I look his way for a moment before barking out a laugh. “That woman has been on my ass since the moment I came out of the womb and everyone realized that the scans lied, and I am very much female.”

A woman means something completely different in Western society. It doesn’t matter that I was born on American soil; as far as Mom is concerned, we’re still in India, and my life dreams are a personal offense to her.

The headphones crackle as Mathijs provides a string of information to traffic control as we close in on my house.

“You know…” Mathijs’s full lips tip up into a grin as he gradually lowers us to the ground. “I could always propose. They can’t get rid of me then, Zal.”

“You’re still the wrong-colored skin for my parents’ tastes.”

He knows it too.

Platinum blond hair, green eyes, and pale skin? On no planet would my parents think that’s a suitable match for their daughter. The fact that his family could afford to surprise their son with a quarter million dollar present for his sixteenth birthday doesn’t mean much to them either.

If they knew the true extent of what his family is into… I wouldn’t put it past them to send Gaya and me to India.

“You know I don’t want any of that until I finish college. It’ll be the biggest fuck you to her if I get a degree and a man.”

Mom’s options for us are either doctor, lawyer, engineer, or housewife. Her preference would be the latter. My brother, Gadin, however, can be whatever he wants. He could say that he wants to be a princess, and Mom would break her back sewing him the perfect gown.

Mathijs’s hand moves from my lap, and I instantly miss the touch. Guilt gnaws at my insides as I glance at him, wondering if I’ll be able to see the frustration bubbling inside. He hates that we have to keep our relationship a secret just so my parents don’t replace out and ship me off to a boarding school.

“You could just say ‘fuck you’ and move out now,” he says as if it’s the simplest solution. As supportive and understanding as he is about my family issues, he’ll never really get it because he loves his parents, and they love him back. “You know my mom would cry happy tears if you stayed with us before we head to college.”

He also wouldn’t understand the issues of his suggestion. Moving out would mean saying goodbye to my parents and their bank account. I’m not bright enough to get a scholarship, and I haven’t been working. My savings will hardly get me far.

Mathijs could cover my entire tuition four times over, and it wouldn’t dent his account. But an innate part of me wants to prove to my mother that I don’t need a man to survive.

My parents are still my meal ticket, and they have connections I’ll need if I want to be successful in my career. If I didn’t need them for anything, I wouldn’t have been hiding my relationship with Mathijs since I was fourteen.

“They’ll come around eventually,” I respond with a sigh, checking my phone again.

I jolt as the landing skids hit the ground, narrowly avoiding the gilded water fountain at the front of my mid-century modern mansion.

My heart beats erratically as we land, and I notice all the lights that are on in our house. Is Gaya throwing a party again? The last time she did that, Mom slapped her with a slipper so hard, she had the shoe imprinted on her skin for days.

So did I for not stopping Gaya.

“Whose car is that?” Mathijs nods toward the Maserati parked by the house as he turns the engines and rotor off.

I don’t think any of Gaya’s friends own that type of car. The majority of them aren’t even old enough to drive yet. Maybe one of them has an older boyfriend?

Mathijs shakes his head when the curtains ripple. “Your sister is just begging to get in trouble.”

I make a noncommittal sound as I push the door open and jump onto the ground. Mathijs is beside me in an instant, closing the door for me and intertwining our fingers. He gives them a comforting squeeze that does nothing to soothe my unsettled nerves.

“I can stay over tonight and help with whatever mess Gaya and her friends make,” he offers, then winks, nudging my side. “I’ll be your bodyguard, baby. I’ll protect you from drunk teenage girls.”

I nod, but something feels wrong about the situation. There’s no music or high-pitched giggling. It’s too still.

My phone vibrates with an incoming text, and I read Gaya’s message.

Gaya: Brace yourself. Tell your man to run while he can.

The air catches in my throat when the next text comes in.

Gaya: They’re back.

Blood rushes from my face.

I whirl toward Mathijs and snatch my hand away, hoping to every divine being there is that my parents somehow missed the helicopter landing in their driveway. “You need to go,” I hiss.

His face falls as he stiffens, glancing around before dropping his gaze to the wide gap I’ve placed between us. “What’s wrong?”

I stumble back, my throat closing. If my sister’s right, I have to salvage this somehow. Maybe Mom didn’t see us holding hands. Maybe she just got home and was in the shower so she didn’t hear the commotion. “Gaya said they’re—”

“Zalak.”

I freeze.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My knuckles turn white as I spin toward her voice.

Mom stands at the front door, deathly still as she takes in every inch of me, burning holes through any semblance of armor I thought I might have. The disdain for me is as clear as day as she scrutinizes my mud-stained jeans and the fur covering my ripped shirt. Mathijs sports the same look as me.

The venomous scowl she cuts his way could kill a lesser man. But he doesn’t back down. No. He does the opposite. He stands right beside me, too close for anyone to pass us off as just friends.

Papa appears in the doorway, holding up a phone to his ear and saying words I can’t quite make out. He waves in the direction of the helicopter, shaking his head.

“Please leave,” I whisper, hoping Mathijs hears my distress.

“Get inside. Now,” Mom grounds out.

I move to step forward, but my boyfriend stops me with a hand around my arm.

“Leave, Mathijs.” He doesn’t let me yank my arm back, so I try again, shooting frantic looks back at my parents. “You’re making it worse.”

He ignores my pleas, looking at me with the same desperation that I feel. “Zal—”

“Get out of here.”

“I’m not letting you deal with this alone. We’ll tell her together.” He attempts to interlock our fingers, but I scramble out of reach. If I can make him leave, maybe Mom’s fury won’t be as bad. I’ll be able to salvage the situation.

“This is my problem to fix.”

But as my gaze slams with Mom’s, I realize there’s no fixing this. She raised me better than to hope she could change. The only truth she’ll ever believe is the one she told herself.

Mathijs curses at his phone. “Fuck, it’s my dad.” He ends the call and turns back to me, trying to close the distance between us when all I can do is inch back. “I’m not going anywhere. I promised you that you’ll never have to do anything alone. This falls under that promise.”

“Zalak,” my father warns, making me flinch.

Mathijs narrows his eyes at my reaction. “Zal—”

“No, Mathijs.” Panic bubbles up my throat. What if Mom doesn’t let me have access to my savings account? I’ve relied on my parents for everything and they might take it away. What if she locks me in my room or takes it out on Gaya? What if she manages to get into my laptop and withdraws my college acceptance?

I have to do something. Anything.

I’ll keep seeing Mathijs in secret. Tell Mom whatever she wants to hear. I have to make this right.

I can feel my parents’ presence behind me, waiting by the door, more impatient by the second.

“Just leave!” I growl. Tears sting my eyes and my lungs scream louder than my racing pulse. The more he says, the worse it will be for me. “Please.”

His phone lights up again with another call from his father that he ignores, then he grabs my arm. “Only if you promise to call me after.”

“We’ll see.”

My stomach sinks from the hurt that flashes across his eyes. “Zal—”

“Leave.”

I can barely make out his face through my blurring vision. I blink my tears away as quickly as I can because my mother will prey on any kind of weakness, using it as a weapon to tell me all the ways I’m a disappointment to my family.

“Please,” I whisper.

Mathijs lets me go. For some reason, it’s like a part of my shattered heart breaks off and crumbles into dust. An open wound for my mother to prod at. He doesn’t walk away. Instead, he watches me leave. Back turned on him. Steps heavy and soul aching. This feels like a goodbye.

The walk to the front door seems to stretch for miles. The crescent moons I’ve dug into my palms do nothing to ground me to Earth. It’s like I’m walking to my slaughter.

Neither of my parents says anything as I walk inside, boots echoing on the tile. Trembling, I struggle to remove my shoes under the weight of their burning stare. The silence is always the worst. It means she’s stewing. It means she’s concocting a way to make me suffer for the crime of attempting to live outside of her control.

“Stand straight,” Mom whispers in Hindi, poking my back. “Greet them, then say you’ll return shortly.”

“Who?” My voice comes out hoarse. The pristine white walls are closing in.

She doesn’t respond, letting Papa lead the way through the foyer and toward the living area. I trail behind numbly, Mom hot on my heels with her long nails scraping my ribs through the thin fabric of my shirt.

Papa plasters on a forced smile as he turns toward the living room, holding his hand out to me. “My apologies. This is our daughter Zalak.”

I hesitate before accepting it, and Mom takes it as a sign to shove me forward. I almost stumble as I approach Papa’s side, only to replace three people have risen to their feet alongside my brother.

It physically pains me to pull my lips into a smile, but I do it because Mom’s punishment will only get worse if I don’t pretend that everything is all sunshine and roses. The man who looks about my father’s age steps forward first, offering me his hand in greeting.

“Madhav,” he says. When I shake his hand, he muses, “Firm grip.”

I sweeten my smile at the patronizing compliment, and shake the other person’s hand. He’s younger than the first. They almost look like the exact same person, just aged down about twenty years.

“Vatsa,” he says.

The woman who I assume is his mother places her hands together and nods her head. I return the gesture.

The younger man unabashedly scans my body from head to toe, then cocks his head as if he hasn’t decided whether he approves or not.

I quickly motion to my clothes, wanting to get rid of the family’s assessment. “Sorry for this. I was out gardening,” I lie. “I’ll just go clean up first.”

I hightail it out of the room, holding my breath to see whether Mom will follow or save the abuse for once the guests leave. The answering pad of footsteps brings a fresh wave of anxiety. I just can’t win.

“Kitchen.” Mom’s voice echoes through the hallway.

There’s no point fighting it. The sooner I do as she says, the sooner I can get this over with. I can’t stop my skin from turning cold and clammy as my cheeks heat, ready for the oncoming tears that will be shed once I’m alone in my room.

Our footsteps echo against the tile floor, and a cold sweat breaks along my skin. I stand behind the kitchen island so Mom doesn’t see me wringing my hands.

She opens the closest drawer to her and pulls out a letter, then places it on the counter between us. I lean closer to read it, and everything in me turns cold.

“Where did you replace that?” My lungs seize as I glance at the college acceptance letter I never told her about. “Did you go through my room?”

Fuck.

Fuck.

“You weren’t home,” Mom says.

Of course she did.

Of course she fucking did. Why am I not surprised? I got complacent. It’s been a year since she’s looked through my phone; I don’t know why I thought she might respect my space and privacy.

I can’t keep living on eggshells.

She wasn’t meant to replace out like this—it’s bad enough that I’m planning on moving out to study in a different state. The fact that I’m going to study political science… I was going to tell her next week once I found out if I managed to get the scholarship grant.

“That doesn’t mean you can go through my room!”

Mom slaps her hand on the table then points at me. “Do not raise your voice at me. You’re lucky I didn’t get rid of you as a child.” I choke back a sob. It isn’t the first time she’s said it, and I doubt it’ll be the last time. It doesn’t make it hurt any less. “I wish I did, when you’re shaming our family by being a whore.”

“I’m not a—”

“You dare speak back to me?” She raises her voice a decibel below a scream. “All you do is hurt me. I raised you, fed you, gave you a roof over your head. You think I had to do that? You think I have to live with an ungrateful daughter who lies just as much as she breathes.”

“Mom, please,” I beg. I wish she could be reasonable for at least two minutes so she can hear me out. “I wanted to tell you about Mathijs, but you’re so unreasonable.”

“And this?” Mom snatches the piece of paper off the table and waves it, crinkling the paper. “Political science?”

“I want to be a journalist,” I say meekly.

“No one likes an opinionated woman.” She scoffs as if my existence is more offensive than my response. “How do you think you’re going to replace a good husband?”

“Mathijs has been by my side for years. He wants me to do whatever will make me happy—”

“Someone like him could never actually want you.”

“He loves me,” I insist. Her words hurt just as much as she intended them to. He does love me, but how long will that love last until he’s tired of waiting for me to replace myself? Free myself from my parents’ hold.

“He’ll grow up. Boys his age are young and immature; they don’t know what they want or what’s good for them. Once he comes to his senses, he’ll realize that it isn’t you.” She shakes her head. “I have never trusted you because you don’t know how to say no. My worries are correct. He’s a bad influence on you. Sneaking out. Lying. Sleeping around. Tarnishing our name. This?”

She tears the letter in two. Then rips it up all over again until there’s nothing but tiny pieces of paper that she lets fall onto the floor. Each one that lands feels like another part of my future being ripped away from me.

College.

A career of my choosing.

Mathijs.

Freedom.

“I’m doing you a favor.” Mom sneers at the shredded letter. “You never would have made it far.”

It takes everything in me not to drop to my knees and put it back together. “Why do you hate me so much?”

“Beti,” Papa warns. Daughter.

I whip my attention toward him, unsure when he came into the kitchen. Sometimes his presence instills hope in me that I’ll have someone in my corner. But one look at him tells me I’m all alone in this.

“You’re under my roof, and you dare insult me like this?” Mom hisses.

Gaya appears at the threshold, wide eyes darting between her and me. She looks showered and refreshed, like Mom just told her about the guests as well. I stiffen when her girlfriend, Amy, shows up behind her, grasping her elbow like she has any hope of stopping Gaya if she gets started.

Mom doesn’t notice their arrival, continuing with her spiel. “If I hated you, I would have sent you to Mumbai where I’d never have to see your face. I sacrificed my happiness for you. I spent years replaceing you a suitable match, and all you’ve done is disrespect our family and his.”

I blink. “His?”

Who is—

“The man in the living room.”

No. No.

“Our families have agreed that it is a suitable match,” Papa says, making me reach for the edge of the counter to hold myself up.

No, no, no. I know nothing about him. What if he doesn’t let me study? What if his mom is just like mine? All my life she’s been training me to be the right person for someone else. I just want to be my own person. Make my own decisions. Lead a path that I’ve set for myself.

“No, you cannot make her marry anyone,” Gaya argues. I shoot her a look to get her to shut up, but she ignores it, holding her head up higher. It’s my job to stand up for her, not the other way around.

“But you might have ruined everything already.” Mom scowls.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Gaya,” I warn, but I know it’s useless. She usually has Papa in her court, so she can get away with almost everything… except the fact that she’s only interested in other women.

“He has to be, what? Midthirties?” she keeps going, getting closer to Mom like it might drive her message home. “He’s already graying. Are you crazy?”

I clap my hand over my mouth when a smack sounds through the room. Gaya’s body swings to the side from the force of Mom’s slap, then she whirls toward me before I can make it to my sister’s side, holding her hand up as a silent threat that she will hit me too if I interfere.

“You are going to go upstairs, shower, dress nicely, and you will never see that boy again. You are going to greet your future husband, and once he leaves, you are going to withdraw all your college applications, and you will be a good wife.”

Tears spill down my cheeks. “And if I do none of those things?”

“Then you will no longer have a family.”