The Good Girl Wears A Tracker

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I came from the foster system. Ever since the Lancaster family took me in, I had been tethered to Tristans side.

When we were children, I was his designated study partner. As we grew older, I became his kept woman, a bird in a gilded cage who lived with the constant, humming fear of being discarded.

There was a time, though, when Tristan truly adored me. He gave up the underground clubs and the reckless street racing, all for me. He used to shadow my every step, calling me "baby" in a voice so thick with sweetness it felt like drowning.

That was until he found the love letter I had written to his older brother, the golden heir of the Lancaster family.

In a single heartbeat, every ounce of his tenderness vanished.

Now, the nights are different. He pins my wrists to the mattress, bruising my skin, using my body to exorcise his demons. He forces me to look into his eyes, his voice tearing at the edges as he snarls, "Look at me, Margot! Look at me and tell me who the hell I am!"

1:00 AM.

I was lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, sleep entirely out of reach. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was one of Tristans friends.

"Hey, Margot. Tristans trashed and refusing to leave. Any chance you could come collect him?"

Not this again. Third time this month.

I let out a heavy, ragged sigh into the quiet room and murmured an agreement.

But when I arrived at the VIP lounge, the heavy bass thumping against my ribs, I immediately realized the truth.

Tristan wasnt drunk at all.

His friends smirked, nudging each other as I walked in.

"Look at that. Good girl Margot, right on cue."

"At his beck and call."

"Well, they don't call her the most obedient girlfriend in our circle for nothing."

That titlethe good, obedient girlfriendwas a recent invention. It only started six months ago, right after Tristan found that letter. Since then, his moods had become a pendulum swinging between cold indifference and volatile cruelty.

I had tried to run. Seven times I ran; seven times I was dragged back.

The last time was the worst. He locked me down so thoroughly that the household staff had to bring my meals to the edge of the bed.

That was when I learned how to play the good girl. No matter who he paraded around, no matter what he did, I remained quiet, docile, invisible.

Just like tonight.

His childhood friend, Gemma, was clinging to his arm, batting her eyelashes and pouting. I didn't interrupt. I just found a quiet corner in the leather booth and let their voices wash over me.

"Tristan, I really want to go to New Zealand for my birthday," Gemma whined, pressing herself against him. "Come with me. Please?"

Tristan took a slow sip of his bourbon. "Busy."

Gemmas pout deepened. "But your assistant told me you had a clear schedule next month!"

Damn it. I had told her that out of common courtesy, and here she was, throwing me right under the bus.

Tristans grip on his glass tightened. His gaze flicked toward my corner, dark and unreadable. "My assistant," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "is incredibly dedicated to her job."

"Since she's so dedicated, maybe she can book our flights?"

I lowered my eyes, swallowing the humiliation.

Gemma, emboldened, slid across the booth until she was sitting right beside me. She leaned in, her perfume cloying and sweet. "Margot, look, Ive saved all these travel itineraries. Tell me what you think."

When she doesn't need me, I'm the assistant. When she does, I'm her best friend. Gemma's ability to pivot was almost impressive.

She shoved her phone screen into my face. "This one is eight days, seven nights. But this one is nine days. Oh, wait, what about the twelve-day package?"

I couldn't fight the sheer force of her feigned enthusiasm. I turned my head and methodically, quietly, began analyzing the pros and cons of each luxury package for her.

From across the table, one of Tristans friends elbowed him. "Gotta hand it to you, man. Youve got her trained well. You're planning a romantic getaway with Gemma, and Margot isn't even flinching. Shes literally planning the trip for you." He laughed. "She must be crazy about you."

That was the wrong thing to say.

The air in the room suddenly turned to ice. Tristans aura darkened, radiating a heavy, suffocating hostility.

Crack.

He hurled his crystal glass at the floor. Shards of glass exploded outward, raining against the toes of my boots.

I looked up. His face was a mask of absolute fury.

"Get out," he snarled. One word.

The music seemed to mute. The room froze.

Playing my part, I stood up quietly, ready to make myself scarce. Because I knew the signs. The storm was about to break.

Ever since the love letter incident, certain words were absolute landmines. Love. Affection. And worst of all: His brother.

His friend had just danced on all of them.

I was secretly relieved to have an excuse to leave, but before I could reach the door, his voice cracked like a whip.

"Margot!"

Apparently, I wasn't the one being told to leave.

The rest of the room caught on immediately. They scrambled for the exit, dragging a protesting Gemma with them, and shoved me back inside as they pulled the heavy mahogany doors shut.

The silence left behind was deafening.

I stood rooted to the spot. Unsure if I should sit. Unsure if I should speak.

Finally, he reached out, gripping my waist, and yanked me hard against his chest.

He stared down at me for a long, agonizing moment. The fury on his face slowly morphed into a mocking, twisted smirk.

"They say you're crazy about me, Margot," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. "What do you think?"

A chill raced down my spine. My hands curled into tight fists. I went for deflection. "Tristan, you've had too much to drink."

He let out a low hum. "Yeah. I have."

Then his mouth crashed down on mine.

It was a bruising, breathless kiss, punishing in its intensity. I didn't fight back. I just endured it, perfectly pliant.

But then his hands moved, slipping under the hem of my blouse, pushing the fabric up aggressively. My eyes flew open in shock.

No matter how erratic he had been lately, he had never crossed this line in a public place.

I started to struggle, pressing my hands against his chest.

His fingers dug into my waist. His tone was dangerously light. "What's wrong? Tired of playing the good girl?"

"Let's talk about this," I pleaded softly, my voice trembling. "Let me go."

"Let you go?" He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "But in that pathetic little letter you wrote to my brother, didn't you promise him you'd stay by my side and take care of me? Its bad enough you fake being the perfect girlfriend to my face. But you're lying to a dead man, too?"

Holden had been dead for two years. How could he use his own brother's ghost as a weapon like this?

Before I could process the sting of his words, he caught my hand. He brought my fingers to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a mocking, wicked smile.

"Your hands are so talented at writing love letters, Margot," he murmured against my skin. "I wonder if they're just as talented at other things."

He dragged my hand down his jaw, tracing his neck, over the rigid muscles of his stomach, moving lower...

Tears of panic pricked my eyes. "Tristan, stop! We're in a club!" Anyone could walk through that door at any second.

He arched an eyebrow, entirely unfazed. "Scared?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. "When you wrote him that letter, when you decided to use me as a convenient stand-in for a ghost, you should have known this day would come."

He noticed the wetness on my lashes.

"Crying?" His thumb brushed away a tear, mockingly gentle. "Shh, don't cry. I just want you to look at me. Look closely. Inside and out."

He pressed me harder against the wall.

"Tell me, where do I resemble him? Is it here? Or here?"

"..."

I didn't wake up until noon the next day.

Panic flared in my chest as I scrambled out of bed, but the familiar surroundings grounded me. I was in my own apartment.

Tristan was here, too.

He was slouched on my cheap sofa, completely relaxed. His back was bare, the muscles shifting smoothly, revealing the red scratches I had left on him the night before.

He glanced up at me, his expression unreadable. "Go put some clothes on. Helen will be here soon."

Helen had been the Lancaster familys head housekeeper for twenty years. Why on earth was she coming to my tiny apartment?

Seeing my confusion, he clarified, "She's taking over your meals and daily routine from now on."

I actually laughed. A dry, humorless sound.

He obviously thought he had pushed me too far last night and that I was gearing up for run number eight. So, he was bringing in the warden.

The obedient facade cracked. I was too exhausted to pretend.

"I already told you, I'm done running. Even if I wanted to, I can't outrun you, and I certainly can't outrun the Lancasters. You don't need to put a spy in my house."

He completely ignored my anger. He casually reached for a cigarette from the coffee table and lit it.

Within seconds, the acrid scent of tobacco filled my small living room.

I hated the smell of smoke. He knew I hated it. But he sat there, taking a long drag, watching me through the haze.

My brows knit together. I walked over and snatched the cigarette from his fingers, crushing it into an ashtray.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "My brother didn't smoke. So now youre going to ban me from doing it too?"

I stared at him, utterly speechless.

How did he twist everything back to Holden? His mental gymnastics were exhausting.

When I didn't reply, he stood up. He grabbed the back of my neck, tilting my head up, and crushed his mouth to mine.

The bitter taste of ash and nicotine invaded my mouth, burning my throat until my eyes watered.

When he finally pulled back, he stared down at me. "You've been with me long enough to know, Margot. I am not my brother. Stop pushing me."

Holden again.

The ghost of his brother was becoming my personal nightmare. I wiped my mouth, my temper flaring. "You're right, you're nothing like him. Holden was a thousand times kinder than you'll ever be."

Tristan let out a dark, hollow laugh.

"If he was so kind, why didn't you just climb into his bed?"

"I would have," I snapped back, reckless. "I just didn't get the chance before he died."

"You!"

Tristan looked like he might actually tear the room apart.

He didn't contact me after that day.

Even matters regarding Lancaster Enterprises were relayed strictly through his executive assistant, Bennett.

I enjoyed the peace and quiet.

The only reason I saw him again was because Vickythe Lancaster matriarch, my adoptive mother in name onlycalled me.

"Margot, Tristan isn't answering his phone again," her crisp, aristocratic voice echoed through the speaker. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of Holdens passing. Be a dear and make sure he comes back to the estate."

I had no power to refuse Vicky. I never did.

I dialed Tristans number.

Gemma answered.

"Tristan is at my place," she said, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "He's decided to take me to New Zealand after all. So, I moved my birthday party up to today. Oh, I totally forgot to invite the assistant. My deepest apologies."

Her petty high school games barely registered. I just felt tired.

"When Mr. Lancaster has a moment, please ask him to return my call," I replied flatly.

Gemma gave a dismissive hum and hung up.

I waited. From 1:00 PM until 8:00 PM, my phone sat completely silent.

When I finally called again, it went straight to voicemail. His phone was off.

Left with no choice, I grabbed my coat and headed to Gemmas estate.

Gemmas pool party was chaotic, loud, and blindingly bright.

The place was crawling with trust-fund kids and old money heirs. Most of them knew exactly who I was.

Walking through a sea of designer bikinis and tailored swim trunks while wearing a modest button-down shirt and long slacks made me stick out like a sore thumb.

I could hear the whispers trailing in my wake.

"What is she doing here?"

"Chasing after Tristan, obviously. What else does she do?"

"I honestly don't get it. She's not even that pretty. How did she manage to wrap both Lancaster brothers around her finger?"

"She's a manipulator. I heard that when she was trying to trap the older brother, she actually got his name tattooed on her ankle."

"No way. Really?"

"Seriously. Think about itwhen was the last time you ever saw her wear a skirt or shorts? She always covers her ankles."

"Damn. Now I kind of want to see it."

I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, letting the gossip slide off me like water. I was just here to find Tristan.

I finally spotted him on the patio, playing poker with Gemma and her inner circle.

He didn't look up, but he felt my presence. He dealt a card, his voice frigid. "What do you want?"

"Your mother wants you home," I said evenly.

"Another blind date?"

"No. It's the anniversary."

At the mention of Holden, Tristan went completely rigid.

He threw his cards face down on the table, a dark, stormy look washing over his features.

"I'm busy. I'm not going."

I had anticipated his refusal.

That was why I made sure my phone was fully charged before I left. I calmly pulled out a patio chair, sat down a few feet away, and prepared to wait him out.

I hadn't been sitting for ten minutes when someone suddenly shrieked.

"Oh my god! My bracelet is gone!"

It was one of Gemmas best friends.

I barely looked up. If you lost your bracelet, go look for it. Why scream about it?

But then the whispers started again, growing louder, more pointed. They were circling me. And when they suggestedwith fake, breathless concernthat everyone needed to be searched, I understood the play.

They wanted to see my ankles.

Gemma looked at Tristan, playing the distressed hostess perfectly. "Margot, I know this is awkward. But Im hosting this, and... well, for my peace of mind, would you just let them check?"

I looked down at the hem of my slacks. My voice was deadpan. "I didn't steal it."

The girls immediately bristled.

"Oh, so we just take your word for it?"

"If you're innocent, take off the clothes and prove it."

"Exactly. It's a pool party. What are you hiding?"

I kept my posture rigid. "I didn't steal it."

Sighing dramatically, Gemma turned to Tristan, silently pleading for him to intervene.

Tristan didn't look at her. He looked at me.

He sat back in his chair, swirling his drink, his expression arrogant and detached. He was waiting. Beg me, Margot. Just ask for my help, and I'll make them stop.

I refused to give him the satisfaction.

I met Gemma's eyes, my voice ice-cold. "Call the police."

Gemma's face flushed with real anger. "Excuse me? I am giving you face because of your history with Tristan. You want to bring the cops to my birthday party? Over a misunderstanding?"

She stepped closer, dropping her voice so only I could hear the venom. "Besides, you're a stray from the foster system. You were raised with nothing. It wouldn't be the first time trash took something that didn't belong to them."

The crowd had gathered now, forming a tight, suffocating ring around me.

Seeing that Tristan was remaining completely silent, sipping his drink like a bored spectator, Gemmas friends grew bolder.

They lunged.

Fingers grabbed at my shirt, pulling and tearing. I fought back, shoving their hands away, but there were too many of them.

The buttons of my blouse popped. They yanked it off my shoulders.

But that wasn't what they were looking for.

"What about the pants?" one of them sneered. "That's where she'd hide it. Are you going to take them off, or do we have to do it for you?"

I stood there in my bra, my fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. My entire body was trembling with absolute, blinding rage.

I looked at Tristan. He was still watching. Cold. Unmoved.

That indifference hurt more than the tearing of my clothes. It broke something fundamental inside me.

"Fine," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I'll take them off."

With trembling fingers, I reached for the zipper of my slacks.

Tristan swore violently.

He finally threw his glass onto the table and stalked over, shoving his way through the circle of girls to stand between me and the crowd.

"Enough!" he roared, the sheer volume of his voice making everyone flinch. "It's a cheap piece of metal. Give me a number, and I'll wire you the money right now."

I froze, staring at his broad back.

He'll wire the money.

Did he think I took it too? Did he honestly believe I was a thief?

A terrifying, hollow calm washed over me. I stepped out from behind him, my face entirely blank.

"I didn't steal it," I said, my voice cutting through the tension like glass. "And I'll take them off."

Tristan whipped around, his eyes wide. "Margot, are you deaf? I said it's enough!"

He reached out to grab my hands, but I took a sharp step back, putting distance between us.

I unzipped my pants and let them drop to the pool deck.

I kicked off my shoes, leaving my legs and my ankles completely bare.

I looked straight into Gemmas horrified face. "Are you satisfied?"

Then I turned to Tristan. "Are you satisfied?"

Gemma was speechless. Tristan looked like he had been struck by lightning.

Nobody was looking at a tattoo. The entire crowd was staring at my left ankle, an unsettling silence falling over the patio as they realized what they were looking at.

"What... what is that?" someone whispered.

"Is that some kind of new jewelry?"

"Some weird kink thing?"

"Are you blind? Look at the blinking light."

"Is that... a GPS tracker?"