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I shake off the thought.
No matter what his intention, the article doesn’t change anything.
I’m mortified by what he did to me. Those types of feelings don’t just go away because he owned up to it in a magazine.
Knowing he pursued me, not because he wanted to but because I was part of some ridiculous plan, cuts me to the absolute core. I’ve never felt such pain.
I feel stupid.
I feel used.
I feel… betrayed.
I stiffen when there’s a knock on my front door, worried it could be Treyton.
But then I hear my mother’s voice through the door, and I relax.
“Clarke, honey.”
“Coming.” I drop the magazine onto the coffee table before quickly making my way across the room to let my mom in.
She gives me a sad smile as soon as she catches sight of me, which make fresh tears form in my eyes.
“If you’re here to say I told you so…”
“I’m not,” she reassures me, pulling me into a hug the instant she steps inside.
“Mom…” I bury my face in her neck and cry.
Because when you see your mom, and you feel like you’re dying on the inside, that’s what you do, you cry.
“Shhh. I know. I know,” she soothes, rubbing her hands up and down my back.
When I found out the truth about Treyton, I couldn’t bear to tell my parents what had happened. I had to give them enough that they would agree to cover the agency for me, but I didn’t tell them the whole story. I couldn’t.
The only thing they know is that we ended things and that I’m not taking it well. Thankfully, they didn’t push for more at the time. I think they knew I’d tell them what happened when I was ready. Just more proof that I really am blessed to have them, even when they drive me crazy.
I don’t know how long we stand there, me crying, her rubbing my back, but by the time she finally releases me, I’ve left the shoulder of her cream colored blouse soaked with tears.
“Thank you for covering the agency for me,” I croak, swiping at my cheeks.
“You don’t have to thank me. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. You know that, right?”
“I do.” I nod, heading back toward the couch, my mother following closely behind.
I flop down in the couch corner, watching my mother’s gaze go to the magazine on the table in front of her.
“He did an interview. The magazine sent me an advanced copy,” I explain.
“I know,” she says softly, taking a seat opposite me in the accent chair.
“What do you mean, you know?” Confusion draws up my brows.
“Treyton came to see us.”
I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating for a full ten seconds.
“He did what?”
