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“I mean that you’ve been even more dismissive, abrasive, rude, and detached than you usually are.”
I can practically hear Sienna hissing in my ear.This bitch…
“That’s rich, coming from you. You’re the queen of detachment parenting. In fact, you should write a book.Ignoring Your Children for the First Eighteen Years of Their Lives and Criticizing Them for the Rest of It: A How-to Manual by Beatrice Carson. Foreword by Satan.”
“I’m not going to listen to this garbage,” she sniffs. “Not when you are the one who’s committed the crime. Those children should be with their father.”
“Interesting. Because, not so long ago, you made me an offer to leave the children in your custody. You didn’t think they needed their father then.”
“We were just trying to do what was best for those kids—”
“And I’m not?”
“No!” I actually flinch away from the phone at the volume of her shriek. “It doesn’t seem like you care about those children at all. Every decision you’ve made has come from a place of pride and selfishness. Honestly, Sienna is probably rolling in her grave. Her children couldn’t possibly be with a worse guardian.”
I suck in a breath. Some words hurt worse than others, even when you wrote off the person speaking them years ago. I don’t care what my mother thinks about me or anything else. I haven’t for a very long time. And yet, suddenly, I’m the same seven-year-old girl who stood in front of my mother, offering up the canvas I’d spent hours on, only to be told that I “didn’t have the talent for painting.”
I open my mouth to defend myself but nothing comes out. I can’t even think of what to say. The only thing running through my head is…
What if she’s right?
“Those children deserve better than the life you’ve given them,” my mother seethes. “With you, they can only ever have a mediocre life. That made sense for you—after all, mediocre life for a mediocre person.”
I bite down on my bottom lip, my limbs frozen in place. With one click, I can silence her for good. But the masochist in me refuses to follow through.
“At least Sienna’s not around to see the shambles you have made of her children’s lives. At least…”
I notice movement from the corner of my eye. Gasping, I jerk around, hoping it’s not one of the kids. It’s not.
It’s Ruslan.
He’s standing under one arched passageway, his eyes fixed on me.Oh God—he heard. He heard everything.
His glare is harsh, but I have no idea what he’s thinking. And then he makes it clear what he’s thinking when he walks down the passage and disappears around the corner.
He doesn’t care. This is not his business anymore.
Message received, loud and clear.
My mother is still hurling more verbal abuse at me. And I just sit there and take it, shaking with silent tears. Because I no longer have the fight left in me to do anything else…
And deep down, I’m terrified that everything she’s accusing me of is true.
18
RUSLAN
I’m patrolling the halls in the East Wing. It’s not even remotely in my job description and yet here I am, walking quietly down corridors that now belong to Emma and the kids.
I can smell her on the carpets and the walls. That faint citrus smell that haunts the air.
Shoes lie haphazardly on all sides of the broad passageway and wayward toys are scattered like breadcrumbs leading to the playroom. A piece of paper hangs off my textured Venetian walls, secured there with… what the fuck is that?
Chewing gum?
Oh,hellfucking no.
I tear the paper free of the wall and then spend the next few minutes trying to scrape off the blue gunk that was holding it there. When it’s as good as I can get it, I glance down at the canvas. From the colorful scribblings, I’d wager this is Reagan’s handywork. She’s all about rainbows and unicorns these days. A typical five-year-old. In a very atypical setting.
