Confessions of A Sacred Heart Virgin

Belladonna Marie

I used to think shame had a sound.

A slammed door.

A mother crying in the bathroom.

A man’s belt hitting the floor.

A wedding ring tossed across a kitchen counter like it meant nothing.

But I was wrong.

Shame is quiet.

It sits across from you at dinner in a black designer suit, smiling like he did not spend half your childhood looking at you in ways no father should ever look at a daughter.

It wears your mother’s face and says nothing while people call you a whore.

It folds its hands in its lap.

It looks away.

That was the night I learned my mother would let the world burn me if it meant keeping herself warm.

I was twenty-nine years old when Matthew Grant put a price on my head.

One billion dollars.

Ten percent of his company.

A trust fund I never asked for.

A future I never wanted.

He called it generosity.

His children called it proof.

And my mother?

My mother called it nothing.

She sat beside him with her wine glass trembling between her fingers, pretending not to hear the word slut when it landed in the middle of the dining room and split me open.

I looked at her.

Not at Matthew.

Not at Caroline, who hated me with her perfect blond hair and her perfect bloodline.

Not at Julian, who looked at me like I was something dirty he still wanted to touch.

Not at Preston, who laughed like my humiliation was entertainment.

I looked at my mother.

Because even at twenty-nine, some broken little part of me still believed mothers were supposed to save their daughters.

She didn’t.

She looked away.

And that was the moment I stopped being her daughter.

The Grant dining room was made for people who never had to apologize.

Everything about it was too large, too polished, too expensive. The marble floors shined so brightly I could see the reflection of my black Mary Jane shoes beneath the table. The chandelier above us looked like frozen rain. The walls were lined with portraits of dead Grant men who had probably ruined women before breakfast and called it legacy by lunch.

I sat at the far end of the table, where I always sat.

Not family enough to sit close.

Not staff enough to be absent.

My dress was black, layered in lace and ruffles; the skirt puffed out like something from a broken doll’s closet. I wore white knee socks with tiny bows at the top, a velvet ribbon choker, and enough dark makeup to make my mother sigh before I even entered the room.

My lipstick was black cherry.

My eyeliner was thick.

My cheeks were powdered too pale.

I had learned a long time ago that beauty was a punishment when the wrong people noticed it. So I made myself strange. I made myself unsettling. I buried Belladonna Marie Mercer beneath gothic paint, Japanese babydoll dresses, and dark ribbons until people stopped saying beautiful and started saying freak.

Freak felt safer.

Freak did not get followed down hallways.

Freak did not make grown men pause too long outside her bedroom door.

Freak did not make her mother’s mouth twist with jealousy when strangers complimented her daughter before they complimented her.

Or at least, that was what I had told myself.

Matthew Grant still watched me.

Across the table, his eyes lingered on my lace collar, then my mouth, then my hands folded tightly in my lap.

I lowered my gaze to my untouched food.

“Belladonna,” he said.

My spine went stiff.

I hated how he said my name. Slowly. Like it was something sweet he wanted to hold under his tongue.

“Yes, Matthew?”

My mother flinched beside him.

Not because of his tone.

Because I had not called him Father.

I never had.

I never would.

Matthew smiled as though my refusal amused him. “You’ve barely eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You never are.”

Caroline Grant let out a delicate laugh from the other side of the table. “Maybe she feeds on darkness.”

Preston snorted into his wine.

Julian leaned back in his chair, eyes dragging over me. “Or attention.”

I said nothing.

Silence had been my shield since I was a child. I had held it up through my mother’s first divorce, second engagement, third heartbreak, fourth promise that this one was different. I had held it through screaming matches and slammed doors, through strange men sleeping over and calling me sweetheart in the kitchen.

By the time my mother married Matthew Grant, I had already decided love was a disease women caught when they were lonely.

And I wanted no part of it.

That was why the convent had sounded like peace.

No men.

No marriage.

No hands reaching.

No mouth promising forever while planning betrayal.

Just prayer. Silence. White walls. Vows that meant something because they were made to God instead of a man.

I could survive silence.

I had been surviving it my whole life.

“Actually,” Matthew said, lifting his wine glass, “since everyone is here, this is the perfect time.”

My mother’s hand tightened around her fork.

I noticed because I always noticed her hands. As a child, I used to watch them to know what kind of night it would be. If her fingers trembled, she would cry. If her nails tapped, she would scream. If she twisted her ring, she had already forgiven a man who did not deserve it.

Tonight, her knuckles were white.

“Perfect time for what?” Caroline asked.

Matthew smiled wider.

That smile had ruined boardrooms, families, and probably countries.

“I’ve recently made some changes to my will.”

The room shifted.

Not loudly.

Rich people did not gasp unless they were pretending.

But Caroline’s back straightened. Preston’s smirk faded. Julian stopped swirling the wine in his glass.

My mother did not move.

I suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Matthew reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded document.

“There will be official meetings later, of course. Lawyers. Signatures. The usual tedious details. But I wanted my family to hear it from me first.”

His family.

The word scraped against something inside me.

I was not his family. I was the daughter of the woman he married. A shadow in his mansion. An inconvenience in lace. The girl everyone whispered about because Matthew Grant had taken too much interest in her, too young, and somehow, that had become my crime.

Matthew looked directly at me.

“Belladonna will be receiving a trust fund.”

My stomach dropped.

The table went silent.

I stared at him. “What?”

“A generous one,” he continued, as if I had not spoken. “Enough that she will never need to depend on anyone.”

Caroline’s eyes snapped to me.

I shook my head once. Barely. A silent no.

No, I did not know.

No, I did not ask.

No, please do not look at me like that.

Matthew’s voice remained smooth. “In addition, I have decided to leave Belladonna ten percent of Grant Industries.”

For one breath, no one spoke.

Then Caroline stood so fast her chair screamed against the marble.

“You cannot be serious.”

Matthew’s expression cooled. “Sit down.”

“No.” Her voice shook, but not with fear. With rage. “You’re giving her ten percent of our company?”

“Our?” Matthew repeated softly.

Caroline went pale.

Preston laughed once, sharp and ugly. “This has to be a joke.”

Julian’s gaze moved over me again, slower this time. Meaner. “It isn’t a joke.”

My skin crawled.

I turned to my mother. “Mom?”

She stared at her plate.

“Mom,” I whispered.

Her lips pressed together.

Matthew took a sip of wine.

Caroline pointed at me with a manicured finger. “What did you do?”

My throat closed. “Nothing.”

“You expect us to believe that?”

“I didn’t know about this.”

Preston leaned forward. “Sure you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” I said, louder.

My voice cracked from the effort. Speaking to men had always felt like walking across a frozen lake and hearing the ice split beneath my feet. I could speak to women if they did not scare me. I could speak to children. I could speak to priests through a screen.

But men?

Men made my hands go numb. Men made my lungs forget their purpose. Men made my body remember things my mind tried to bury.

Except anger had a strange mercy.

Sometimes it burned hotter than fear.

Caroline came around the table slowly. “You little parasite.”

“Caroline,” Matthew warned.

She ignored him. Her eyes stayed on me. “All these years, you walk around this house in your creepy little doll costumes, acting like you’re better than us. Like you’re pure. Like you’re untouchable.”

I pushed my chair back, but she moved closer.

“Don’t,” I whispered.

She smiled. “Don’t what? Tell the truth?”

Julian stood next.

My heartbeat jumped hard.

I hated him standing. Hated his height. Hated the memory of his hand closing around my wrist outside the library two years ago when he had been drunk and laughing, telling me not to act scared because girls who dressed like dolls wanted to be played with.

I had bitten him hard enough to draw blood.

He had called me insane.

Matthew had called it a misunderstanding.

My mother had asked me what I was wearing.

Julian leaned both hands on the table. “Father doesn’t give away a billion dollars for nothing.”

My mouth went dry.

Preston tilted his head. “Maybe she’s not as untouched as she pretends.”

The word landed like a slap.

Untouched.

They always said it like a dare.

Like my virginity was not mine. Like it was a locked door that offended them simply by staying closed.

I looked at my mother again.

Please.

The plea rose inside me, helpless and childish.

Please stand up.

Please tell them I am your daughter.

Please tell them I am not what they are saying.

Please tell them you know what he is.

Her eyes lifted to mine.

For one second, I saw something there.

Guilt.

Fear.

Maybe even love, if love could be that weak.

Then Matthew’s hand settled over hers on the table.

My mother looked away.

The room blurred.

Caroline bent close to my face. “How long?”

I stared at her. “What?”

“How long have you been sleeping with my father?”

The silence afterward was worse than the accusation.

It was not empty.

It was waiting.

I stood so quickly my chair tipped backward and hit the floor.

“I have never touched him.”

Author Note:

Thank you for adding Confessions of A Sacred Heart Virgin to your library. Belladonna’s story is dark, emotional, and full of secrets. If you’re rooting for her, leave a comment, review and let me know what you think so far.

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