I raise a brow, bracing for what is to come “Then why ask?”
She's right in front of me, taller because of the six-inch heels she loves to wear. Her perfume invades my nose, causing my stomach to roll. It's the one smell I remember hating growing up. It's too sweet, too strong, and the way it lingers long after she's left a room haunts me.
“It stops,” she says. “Now. I won't have my daughter out drinking until God knows what time, or opening her legs for every man in this town.”
The words hit me as though it was her fist, trying to embarrass or humiliate me, but I couldn't care less.
I don't show her any emotion. “Funny that you think you get a say in my life.”
Done with this conversation, I spin on my heel to leave, but her hand clamps around my arm.
“Oh, I do,” she snaps. “While you're under my roof”
“Don't you mean Elijah's roof?” I spit back. “Let's not pretend that you contribute to anything in this house.”
Her jaw tightens, and her hand squeezes hard around my arm. “My husband. My house. And you will not show us up. If you do, you'll find yourself on the street.”
Honestly? The street sounds like a promotion.
Anger flares hot and fast, and I yank my arm free. “Fuck. You.”
She's damn lucky I didn't deck her for touching me, or for having the audacity to bring up my dad in front of me. She has zero right.
I don't wait for her reaction. I storm out, past the polished floors and the too-perfect decor that screams show home rather than a family home, up to my room and away from that bitch.
Sassy is curled on the bed. I slam the door, lock it, and press my back against it. The wood is cool against me as I steady my breathing, a whooshing sound filling my ears. I refuse to break down or give her the satisfaction of going back down and ripping her a new one.
I move to the bed, crawl into it, and curl beside Sassy. She purrs immediately, warm and soft, like she knows something is wrong.
My head hits the pillow.
And then it all caves in, as hard as I tried to push it all down.
Tears come hard and fast, unstoppable, my chest tightening until it hurts to breathe. Every awful word she threw at me keeps echoing, digging deeper, like she's tearing into me. For a moment, I’m eight years old again, wondering why my mother never wanted me the way she wantedthem.
What made her give up on me?
Why wasn't I good enough for her?
I feel my heart cracking at the edges, inch by inch, my eyes burning and throat tight. My breath comes hot and fast, and Ican't seem to stop the flood of emotions wreaking havoc on my body. I bury my face into the pillow so no one hears me fall apart.
Chapter 2
Elijah
It's been a long two weeks.
A slow, suffocating, mind-numbing two weeks.
Going to Spain with my wife was… well, calling it “torture” feels a bit too dramatic, but “unpleasant enough to make a trip to the dentist feel like a vacation” might just hit the mark. She called it a romantic reset. I called it a hostage with room service.
Instead of going back to our home with her like the obedient husband she pretends she has, I went straight to the garage. I needed to check on things and to make sure my brother hadn't set anything on fire in my absence. I couldn't stand being in Rose's company any longer, especially with the conversation I planned to have with her after our son’s football game.
And maybe a part of me was trying to delay seeing Willow.
She hates me. I don't even blame her for hating me; I hate me more than she ever could. She's right to hate me. I broke her family. I betrayed my best friend. I made choices that still feel like a punch in the ribs every time I think about them.
Would I change it if I could? Most of it, yes. But my son? Never.
