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"You can do what you want, mom. I’m not selling my company," I say again, feeling more determined than ever. An expression of contempt washes over her face and, for a fraction of a second, all of her beauty vanishes; she looks dangerous now, like a coiled snake ready to jump and bury its fangs into the neck of a defenseless prey.
"Actions have consequences. And I can’t be responsible for what happens next," she tells me, her words cold and heartless, a veiled threat in her voice.
"Are you threatening me?" I ask in complete disbelief. I know my mother is ruthless but… Christ, I’m her daughter!
"You’re making your own bed. And, sooner or later, you’re going to lie down on it. I offered you a bed of respect and money, Natalie, but it seems that you prefer one made of thorns."
"Why are you threatening me, Mom?" I ask, a bit too shrill. "Why are you always so brutal on me?"
Mom looks at me. "Honestly, Natalie, I'm warning you," she says. "If you don't get out of this filthy sex toy business, you're not going to be considered my daughter any longer."
"And so what?" I shout back. "It's not like you were ever a mother
to me!"
It takes her two seconds. But her hand reaches out.
And slaps me.
"You ungrateful little bitch!" she yells. "You better watch your back, baby girl. Because I'm about to destroy both you, your stepdad, and your stepbrother."
There is nothing but anger in her eyes.
"I'll make the world hate you! To the point where they close your business down for you! And by the time I'm done destroying the three of you, they'll be wanting to make me a saint for putting up with you," Mom says. I
"You wouldn't," I say, shocked. "Not to your own family."
"I hate all three of you," she says. "And with the reporters I have in my payroll, you're going to watch Sloane and Drake suffer."
Clutching her purse to her breast, she then turns on her heels and walks for the door, leaving me completely dumbfounded in the middle of the living room.
Before she can leave, though, I walk after her. I slam the palm of my hand against the door, stopping her from opening it, and look into her eyes. It hurts me to say it, but the person looking back at me isn’t someone I can call a mother. There’s just ice there, almost as if I were just another obstacle in her path.
But there’s something else too. It finally dawns on me.
"You’re jealous…" I whisper, and I notice a flicker of anger in her eyes. I can hardly believe it, but she’s jealous of me.
"Don’t be silly. Why would I be jealous?" she says, but her voice falters as she says it. I can see through the cracks in her armor. I open my mouth to speak, but then I realize it won’t do any good.
"Just go," I whisper, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I step back from the door, and with one final hard look at me, she leaves. I lean against the wall and let my body slide down to the floor; burying my face in my hands, I let one huge sob rise in my chest and I finally let the tears loose.
I’m not crying because I’m afraid of her. I’m a big girl and I can handle myself; I’m crying because she’s my mother. I never had a close relationship with her, but to think that she has become a complete stranger… And, more than that, she’s on the verge of becoming my enemy. My own mother!
I pity her, to be honest. She always chased money and fame, the high-life, running after it like a dog chasing after a car. It’s everything she wants, but the last thing she needs. And that’s why I know she’s jealous of me. I live a life of freedom, doing the things I love and being true to myself. And she either can’t do that, or won’t.
Wiping away the tears with the back of my hand, I go up to my feet and take a deep breath.
Let her threaten me. Let her come after me.
I’m right here.
Drake
The waitress brings us another round of drinks. We're sitting at Cipriani's, and the broker in front of me takes a good, long look at the waitress' ass as she walks away, and then he continues his rant. He's been bragging about his firm's latest client for the last twenty minutes.
He's one of those old money types. His money's been handed to him from his father, and his father's father, and on, and on. It's a legacy that probably began when his family came over from the fucking Mayflower or something. You get the point. This guy's never known what it's like to have one foot dangling just above the gutter, or to claw your way to the top out of necessity.
It almost makes me smile. I don't care how much money I've made, having that knowledge of desperation simmering just below the surface never goes away, and it gives me an advantage against the competition. It brings out the blood-thirsty shark in me. Always.
