Anger burns bright in my stomach, slowly pressing up against the back of my throat. She looks so sure of herself, so confident that she’s on the right side of history. Because just like with Daddy, the possibility of being wrong doesn’t exist to her.
When it comes to creating our own realities, my parents are so far removed from the truth that they’re on an entirely different planet, looking down at everyone else from their thrones.
“Here’s the thing, Mama.” Leaning forward, I take her hands in mine and suck in a deep breath, trying to channel some inner strength I’m not quite sure I’m capable of. An ache flares between my legs, reminding me that even if I don’t feel strong, my body is proof otherwise.
Proof that trauma doesn’t define me. That whatever hold Preston and Daddy once had on me hasn’t ruined my ability to heal.
That my body is mine and mine alone, regardless of whoever decides they have access to it.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her what happened, but when I open my mouth to do so, the words don’t come. Silence bleeds into the air, and the two of them stare back at me, clearly waiting for some huge revelation.
Snapping my jaw shut, I shake my head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Let the Preston shit go, Mama, and tell Daddy the same. I’m through being his little PR gopher.”
She has the gall to look affronted by my tone, ripping her hands from mine. “Goodness, he’s already affected your manners, I see.”
“Actually, that’s on me. I’m no longer interested in being polite with people who don’t return the favor.”
Pushing my chair back, I swipe my purse from the table and stand up, making the dishes clatter loudly. A few other customers glance over, and I even see one pull their phone from their pocket as soon as they realize what they’re witnessing.
I can already see the headlines: Sweet Little Lenny Primrose Loses it in Public Again, or Real Estate Heiress Terrorizes Restaurant, Threatens to Overturn Tables.
Never mind that neither of those are—or ever have been—remotely true, they also blatantly oversimplify a much larger problem, which is the fact that they’ve invaded my privacy for clicks in the first place.
And yes, that’s the way my world works. Being in the public eye means they see everything, and there’s always a comment to be had, but that doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.
Reaching into my purse, I pull out a wad of cash from the emergency stash I keep hidden in my dresser, tossing it onto the table by the check. “Thanks for dinner, Mama. Maybe next time you can just kick me in the stomach and save yourself the trouble.”
Palmer scrambles out of his seat as I turn to leave, jogging to catch up. We walk down the street to where his Audi sits in a pay lot, and as we climb into the vehicle, he shoots me an apologetic look.
“Could’ve been worse, right?”
Leaning my head against the seat, I turn to look at him. “Could it have been?”
He quiets, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. After a prolonged silence, he turns the car on and backs out of the space, and within minutes we’re en route to the beach house.
The sky darkens as we drive across the island, pinks and oranges splashing against the clouds and making the ocean look ethereal. I try to imprint the picture in my mind so I can emulate it later, but annoyance still simmers in my gut, tainting the image.
Palmer pulls into the drive a little while later, switching into park before turning toward me. “Look, I don’t know what happened with you and Preston—”
“Oh, god, not you too.”
Snorting, he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “No, no. I don’t care who you fuck or marry, swan. I care that you’re happy, and if you say this Jonas character makes you happy, then nothing else matters. Not even his rumored profession.”
Squeezing my thighs together, I think about the way everyone used to whisper about the things Jonas Wolfe is capable of. That he kills for the Mafia and lacks even a modicum of remorse, and supposedly doesn’t have a caring or kind bone in his body.
And sure, most of that may be true, but even that isn’t the full story.
“Anyway.” Palmer taps my nose, drawing me back to the issue at hand. “My point is, I’m happy to see you thriving, and that you got away from whatever demons were weighing you down before.”
I glance at him, something in my chest pinching tight. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you think people don’t take notice when the light in their lives goes out?” He gives me a sad smile, and it doesn’t meet his dark eyes. “For those of us living in the dark, it’s obvious.”
Blinking, I search the angular features of his face—so similar to mine in structure, but more worn from overuse. Like he’s been battling his own storm clouds, and it was long before my sky grew gray.
I’m not sure what to do with his assumption that I’m better, even though I want to believe it. Part of me does, knowing full well that my urges have lessened and the nightmares have ceased.
Still, some traumas weasel their way into your soul, and they don’t ever uproot. No matter how hard you pull or how deep you bury them.
Getting out of the car, I tell Palmer goodbye and make plans to see him again this weekend. Jonas doesn’t appear to be home, so the beach house is dark, and I push my finger into the biometric scanner at the front door, letting it process my print.
An eerie feeling washes down my spine, icy hands skimming along the bone, as I step inside and flip on the lights. Throat tight, I scan the foyer and down the hall, kicking the door shut with my heel.
“Hello?” I call out, in case Jonas is here and I happened to miss his Range Rover.
I’m met with tense silence, and after a moment, I shake off my unease and move on. Like the foyer, the living area and kitchen are empty, and I let out a sigh when I see no signs of intrusion or missing items.
Walking to the windows on the back wall, I draw the curtains over the iron security bars. My stomach growls, begging me to grab a snack, so I pop some popcorn and take it with me to my workspace on the other side of the room.
Bending down, I pull an unopened box of charcoal over and pull my sketchpad from beneath the couch cushion, shoving a handful of popcorn into my mouth.
I’m halfway through chewing, completely concentrated on the piece in front of me, when the office door swings open, and someone who is definitely not Jonas lets out an ear-piercing scream.
34
“How many people are left on this spiritual quest of yours?”
Zipping the black duffel bag closed, I give Alistair a flat look. “You mean the one you paid me to start?”
Taking a big drink from his insulated water bottle, he glances from me to the corpse at our feet. “I don’t remember taking a hit out on the comptroller’s son.”
“Right. Just anyone who might oppose your senate nomination.”
He shrugs, stuffing a hand in the pocket of his athletic trousers. “That’s just good sense.”
Good sense would be leaving me alone right about now, but Alistair’s never been one to observe social cues. Not because he can’t read them, but because ignoring them makes people uncomfortable, and he loves having an edge.