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“Charlize.” His voice was low. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
My eyes grew wide. My heart raced in my chest. “What is it?” I whispered, knowing full well it was about my mother.
“You might want to sit down.”
I shook my head. “Tell me.”
“It’s… your mother, Charli. She…” He ran two hands through his hair, the distress on his face abundantly clear. This was bad news. “She’s dead.”
Time stopped.
I could hear my heart pounding rapidly in my chest, the blood rushing to my ears. I sat down to brace myself. I wasn’t ready to hear this.
“H— how?”
He crouched down. His cologne is strong and heady. The one thing I’d always admired, the few times I’d seen him, is how impeccably dressed he was. Everyone knew Alistair Devereaux was insanely rich, and was the most eligible bachelor in England. Until my mum married him. They knew each other from college. I came home one day and Mum introduced me to him, and said they were getting married; something they ended up doing in private. I wasn’t even invited. That made me feel unworthy and a little lost. My mother wasn’t a gushing bride, nor did she act in love with him. It was the strangest thing. Like there was some kind of deal between the two of them that I wasn’t privy to. Their union seemed forced and unnatural.
“An accidental overdose.” His voice was strangely caressing. I don’t know if he added the accidental thing for my benefit, or if he truly believed it himself. But my world was spinning.
My mum was dead.
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, Charli. You need to come with me so we can make arrangements. I’m…” He paused. “I’m sorry. I know this must be incredibly difficult for you.”
I looked away, surprised no tears formed.
Was something wrong with me?
I was upset, but also in shock. That must’ve been what it was.
“Charli?” he said, those grey eyes assessing me. The first time I’ve ever seen him concerned, or even pay any attention to me. “Say something.”
“I want to go home.”
He nodded. “Alright, but be warned, your grandmother is on the warpath. She wants you to go live with her.”
“What are the alternatives? To live with you?” My gaze met his.
“If that’s what you want.”
I didn’t really know what I wanted. I was still a child, a motherless child at that.
I wondered why he wasn’t more choked up, or maybe he hid it in private.
“When is the funeral?”
His frown deepened. Maybe he was expecting I’d be a mess. Inside, my stomach was churning and my head pounded. But I’d learned from an early age not to show my emotions.
Little does he know I’ve learned to bottle up my feelings. Pretend I don’t exist. Make myself as small as possible to survive. And that’s what I’ll do now.
“I’m arranging things as we speak.”
My eyes met his. “Did you love her?”
I think I already know the answer.
“In my own way, yes.” His eyes never left mine. “But our relationship was complicated, maybe when you’re older…”
