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She gives me a kind smile. “Yes. Don’t you?”
I shake my head, my brows furrowing as I look back down at my coffee. “I used to believe what you and Dad had was love. I mean, you were crazy about him, and I thought he felt the same way. But then he could just walk away. From you, from me. No backward glances or doubts.” I pause, considering what I really want to ask her. “When Dad left, how did you get through that? I mean, I know we moved to Chicago to manage expenses, but how did you keep on living? I just–I was so hurt that Dad abandoned us, mad that he could break your heart like that, and I remember you being so sad…”
I shake my head as a long-forgotten memory rises to the surface of my mind, one of my mother falling to the floor of our Iowa home’s entryway, sobbing as my father closed the front door in her face. The way she seemed to lose the strength to stand, crumpling like a house of cards whose foundation was swept out from under it.
My voice cracks as I try to continue. “I was so angry, but you just seemed so… broken.”
“Oh, honey.” My mom reaches across the table to take my hand and give it a squeeze. “I would be lying if I didn’t say it was hard. I did love your father with all my heart, and having him leave us like that terrified me. I suffered from depression for a long time over it, and some days, I couldn’t stand the thought of getting out of bed or going to work. But I wouldn’t give up that relationship or a single second of the pain that came after it for anything because it gave me you,” she murmurs, and I can hear the conviction in her tone.
And when I meet her eyes, they’re pooling with unshed tears. The lump in my throat nearly strangles me as I try to maintain control, but seeing my mother so close to crying has me on the verge of losing it.
“Youare what makes me believe in love, Whitney. You’re what gave me the strength to pick myself up, dust myself off, and try again. And you know what? I’m happy now with Steve. He’s a good man, a kind man who wants to do right by me.”
The look on my mother’s face as she says Steve’s name shocks me. I can see it in the way her eyes soften and the corners of her lips curve up like she’s holding a secret. My mom’s fallen in love with her boyfriend. God, if he hurts her, I just might kill him.
My mom sniffles, as she restrains her tears. “I’m actually really glad we’re having this conversation now because remember how I told you Steve and I are taking a trip to Hawaii together next weekend?”
“Yeah?” I ask cautiously.
“Well, I think he might propose. And this is a good thing, honey,” she assures me, cupping my cheek and brushing it with the pad of her thumb. “I’m very happy with him, and I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“I’m not… I just–”
“I can see it written all over your face.” My mom’s eyes turn sad once more as her lips press into a concerned line. “I’m sorry my divorce from your father left you so cynical about love. I want you to find someone you really care about deeply, and I want you to hold onto that with all you’ve got. Because life just isn’t worth living if you don’t allow love to be a part of it.”
A sob rips through me as her words hit too close to home. I came here looking for validation that I can get past my feelings for Ilya, that the pain will go away. But somehow, I feel more lost than ever knowing that I’ve done to myself exactly what I promised I would never do. I’ve fallen for a man who might not be capable of loving me in return.
Rising from her chair, my mom pulls me in for a tight hug, pulling my cheek to her shoulder as she strokes my hair, soothing me as she murmurs gentle affirmations. Only after my breathing starts to calm once more and I can slow my tears does she release me to meet my eyes once more.
“I know you prefer to keep things close to the chest,” my mom says kindly, “and you don’t have to tell me why you’re crying if you don’t want to. But if I had to guess what this is all about, I would say you’re going through your own heartbreak right now.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.
She gives me a compassionate smile. “I promise you there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. You’ll find the right person, even if it’s not the man who broke your heart.”
God, I hope she’s right. But even the thought of finding someone other than Ilya fills me with a deep sense of loss and sadness. I just don’t know what I’ll do without him.
32
ILYA
“Sure took you long enough to get off your high horse and call me,” Bianka scolds through the phone, her voice sharp. “Or did you just feel the need to boss me around some more?”
I fight to hold back my sigh as I close my eyes and rub my temples with a thumb and forefinger. “If I promise not to lose my temper again, will you come home for another conversation, maybe actually stay for dinner this time?” I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “I need someone to speak to, and you’re the only one I trust with this kind of stuff.”
She giggles. “It’s nice to hear you’re finally over your tantrum. It only took you two weeks,” she teases.
I clench my teeth, keeping my impatience in check.
“I’m kidding. If you need someone to talk to, of course I’m there. I’ll be home in two hours.” Her tone shifts into a softer melody as she finds her compassion.
“Thank you,” I say shortly. This conversation is going to be painful enough as it is. I hope she’s not in a smug mood, though from the sound of it, I might just be in for a good tongue lashing.
We hang up, and I lean my head back against my office chair as I take in a deep breath. I feel like my whole life is on the verge of going up in flames. I’ve made no forward progress on finding the men who killed Artem. They’ve become a ghost in the wind. And in the meantime, I’ve failed to bring my sister home and have more than likely obliterated my relationship with Whitney.
It’s taken me two weeks to come to terms with the fact that I owe Bianka an apology. But Whitney, I’m still at a loss for how I should proceed. I can’t figure out where we stand after I walked in on her and Trent’s performance last night, the hug they shared afterward that made me lose my mind. And even though she didn’t stop me when I stripped her right there in the studio and took her–which she’s proven capable of doing–even though I could make her come around my cock, I still feel like I can’t find my footing with her.
My thoughts have continued to spiral, no matter how hard I’ve tried to focus on the more potentially fatal challenge at hand. But as I’ve hit a dead end on where else I can hunt for these low-life power-hungry thieves, I find it impossible to get the image of Whitney’s face out of my mind, the tears streaking her cheeks. The pain in her eyes. Like a splinter in the palm of my hand, it continues to needle me, impacting every action I take until I’m desperate to dig the persistent discomfort from beneath my flesh. I don’t know what’s right anymore. When it comes to Whitney, I feel as though every option I can think of is a wrong one. Either for her or for me.
