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“Isn’t this gorgeous?”
My mother whispered as she stopped at the center of the room, staring in awe of the hideous fresco.
“Uh-huh,” I muttered. “When can I paint over it?”
She gasped, her hazel eyes wide as she looked at me. “Paint over it? Be serious, Alexandrea.”
“I think they can afford it. I saw an original Rembrandt on our way through the house.”
“That’s beside the point,” she snapped. “You wouldn’t repaint the Sistine Chapel because you weren’t a fan of Michelangelo.”
I shrugged. “Hey, it’s not like we have to live here.”
“Attitude,” she said in a clipped tone.
“Look at the artist’s work.” I pointed my finger at the ceiling, highlighting the chipped plaster that ruined the watercolor landscape. “The artist was sloppy. They did a terrible job with the plaster. You can see clumps near the molding.”
She narrowed her eyes at me and then followed my finger. “I’ll have Armand look at this week.”
“I can restore it,” I said with certainty. “No problem. Give me two weeks.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “This piece is too expensive to let a novice restore it.”
“I studied under Madeline Laveau. I can fix the ceiling. And need I remind you the client asked for me, not you or Armand.”
She pursed her lips. “Let Armand handle it. We have more pressing projects.”
A restoration of this magnitude would have made an excellent addition to my portfolio. Of course, my mother could never see my talent, never considered me of the same caliber as her peers.
“Between you and Dad, I don’t know which of you is worse. You have never given me a chance. It doesn’t matter how many galleries I sell out. You still won’t acknowledge me as an equal.”
She sneered at me. “Keep your voice down while we’re inside a client’s home.”
I rolled my eyes. “Luca will be angry if you let Armand restore this.”
She tucked her bottom lip into her mouth, averting my gaze. “Don’t threaten me.” Her voice was low, soft. “I’ve endured enough harassment from Arlo and his sons.”
“You may have run from Arlo, but I’m not running from Luca. This is your doing. You put me in this position. If you weren’t such a selfish bitch—”
“If I had married Arlo, you wouldn’t be here.” She rubbed her temples. “I don’t expect you to understand the choices I made.”
She tugged at her jacket sleeve and glanced at her watch. My eyes widened at the sight of dark bruises on her wrist. They looked like fingerprints.
“Who did that to you?”
Mom slid her jacket over the bruises and turned her head. “It’s nothing. I tripped.”
“Is Dad hurting you?”
She released a wicked cackle. “Of course not. Your father wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Then who did that?”
Our eyes met, and without hearing the words, I knew the answer.
Arlo.
The bitch deserved it.
She killed his wife.
Locked me in a closet.
Emotionally abused her children.
My mother turned away from me, ashamed. “Last night, Arlo came to Wellington Manor and forced me to leave with him.”
“Does Dad know?”
She nodded. “He watched me leave the house.”
“He didn’t defend you?”
Coward.
“Like either of us have a choice,” she breathed. “What Arlo says goes. None of us are in control of our lives. That’s why I ran from him. I couldn’t wait to escape Arlo and live without someone telling me what to do.”
“You could have spared us.”
She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. Arlo sunk his claws into you before you were born. I wasn’t planning on having children, but Arlo has his ways.”
“You never cared about Aiden and me, never showed us an ounce of love.”
A moment passed before her eyes met mine. “I never wanted children.”
I’d always known the truth, but hearing it aloud didn’t make it hurt any less. My life had been hell for years because of her. She stole a mother from her children and abused her own flesh and blood. The woman standing beside me didn’t deserve an ounce of pity. She deserved whatever Arlo was doing to her in secret.
I hated her, but in some ways, she was a victim. We were both pawns in a sick game with rich assholes. Her father had arranged her marriage to Arlo, made her feel like a prisoner.
A young, pretty brunette appeared in the entryway to the ballroom and cleared her throat. “Mrs. Channing,” she said to my mom, who had a different last name from Aiden and me.
She’d made it clear from birth we were never hers.
The woman looked at me. “Miss Wellington, Mrs. Du Bois is looking forward to meeting with you. Please follow me.”
* * *
After the meeting, we entered Wellington Architecture and Design through the back door. We hadn’t spoken a word on our drive back from the Du Bois Estate. Our brief moment of honesty had evaporated the second we met with the client.
My mom turned left toward her office, and I veered toward the right.
