PERMANENT HOLD Liberated (New Version of: Falling for a Billionaire)

5: The Myra Durer

CONTAINS MODERATE GRAPHIC VIOLENCE: 18+

I wanted to let you all know before hand that this chapter contains some graphic violence that you may not want to read, in that case, you don't have to. It's your choice. In any way, enjoy reading

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At first glance, Myra doesn't look like anything other than an ordinary house wife in her late forties or early fifties. In a stranger's mind, she looks like she probably attended a PTA meeting for one of her oldest kids, dropped another one off at football practice, and had enough time to get a good spot in the carpool line at the elementary school before she went home and cooked dinner for her family of six. She's that kind of flared yoga pant, and I-couldn't-care-less-I-have-errands-to-do-look, Mom-of-the-year type of person.

But, you know what they say. Looks can be deceiving.

For instance, when I walk in, a chair is thrown at the wall beside my head. Oh yes, Myra was angry. Loud yelling fills the house. The brown—quickly fading into grey—haired woman is standing in the middle of a pile of shattered pottery and glass and looks like she's grabbing anything that can be thrown to demonstrate how infuriated she is.

My eyes find Margaret's familiar brown head of hair peeking out from behind the cracked open bathroom door. She watches Myra tiredly, being cautious to keep her tiny baby bump behind the door.

Esther is standing near the sliding doors to the back porch, her eyes wide in shock as she watches Myra pull every single last one of her knick-knacks off the wall and onto the floor. I can see that she's protecting Myra's fine china—which Myra never let us touch—in her hands.

Lucy is curled up and sat tense in the corner of the room beside Ymir's bedroom door, which is firmly shut. Ymir probably already had her headphones in to block out the noise, otherwise she would have pulled Lucy in immediately.

I stand near the door I had just opened. My messy curls were now pulled back into a high ponytail and I was carrying my heels from last night in my hand.

I shivered as Myra grew tight-lipped once she saw me.

Her eyes were deadly thin like a viper's, but her voice was calm and soothing like a Queen's. And with it she says, "Where the hell have you been?" as if she's worried and crooning over me.

She stands with perfect posture.

Today, she is wearing a pencil skirt and a nice blouse; no PTA mom here.

Today, she is acting the role of a Queen. The Queen of this house perhaps, but also the Queen of five young women whose lives are in the palm of her hand. We live under her rule; we breathe air because of her; we have homes because of her. And today, the Queen is not happy at all.

"Can't I have a little time of my own?" I tread carefully, but apparently not carefully enough, "I thought you didn't need me until Monday." I step around the chair cautiously and close the front door, shutting the chilling wind out.

Her gaze is calculating. She seems relaxed and at ease, when the room is clearly direct evidence that she is not.

"My dear, I was merely worried about you. I hardly think it is fair that I let you girls spend a night out and you don't even tell me where you are. I thought something had happened to you, darling..."

She's playing tricks now. I've been around here long enough to know it.

The broken glass crunches under her short heels as she walks over to me. She has on her face the most earnest concerned expression I've ever seen her make. She stands an inch or two taller than me, almost six foot four.