She shakes her head. “It’s like I said. I know everything about the Hideaway. Everything.” She gathers the carrots and distractedly dumps them into the bowl, not meeting my gaze. “I don’t want you to think I’m judging you. God knows I’d be a hypocrite. But when Daniel told me you and Dimitri came in, begging for a way to earn fast cash…” She pauses, bracing her palms against the counter, and takes a long breath. “I suppose I’m not blameless. Clearly, I set a terrible example, but Story…” Finally, she looks at me, and all the anger and defensiveness falls away. What’s left is just her. My mother. The woman who used to sing me to sleep. The woman who’d brush my hair and call me her little storybook. The woman who’d come into a hotel bathroom bruised and watery-eyed, and plaster on a fake smile, so I didn’t get scared. There’s a plea in her eyes that makes the lump in my throat swell. “Baby, I don’t want that life for you. I’ve worked too hard, come too far, to watch my daughter walk down the same crooked path. It’s not a good life. It’s not a safe life. Look at Daniel!” She flings a hand toward the living room. “Shot protecting one of his girls. You have a chance to get away from all that, don’t you see? Even if it means swallowing a little pride.”
How stupid I must have been to believe I’d cried out all my tears that night in the funhouse. They threaten to well up now, and somewhere inside of my chest, something grows. It’s too turbulent a thing to be so simple as anger. I think it might be some agonizing howl of rage and violence and grief. Because Daniel told her I wanted it. That I did it for the money. That I’m the whore he always wanted me to be.
And my mom believed it.
“I just thought it was time for me to make my own way.” I force the rest over the lump in my throat. “He’s done so much for me already.”
Her chin tilts. “Did you really do it to make more money for yourself, or was it something else?”
“What do you mean?”
She opens a pot and stirs the contents with a large spoon. “Dimitri doesn’t come from the best family, and after his humiliation at the alumni performance, I can imagine his opportunities are drying up.”
“This has nothing to do with Dimitri,” I grind out, angry that she thinks the man who saved me was responsible for putting me in that position to begin with. “I’m ready to be an adult. I don’t want to rely on Daniel.”
“Then you really must not understand how marriage, or at least mine, works. We’re partners, Story. His money is my money, and we help you because we care. You’re just as much his child as Killian is mine.”
The thought of being Daniel’s child makes me recoil. Probably, the thought of being her child would make Killian feel similarly. No wonder my stepbrother and I are both fucked up and drawn to one another like acid-covered magnets.
“And anyway, men like to feel needed,” she continues while pulling serving utensils out of the drawer, “especially a powerful man like Daniel. It’s important for him to take care of his family. Walking away from his generosity looks unappreciative, Story. And it’s not just about him. A prospective husband will notice the slight as well. The right kind of suitor doesn’t want a woman who can take care of herself.”
“I do appreciate Daniel’s…generosity,” I bite the word like it’s gristle. “But you raised me to be independent, didn’t you? To handle things myself?”
She jerks her head toward the living room. “You think Tristian Mercer wants a ‘strong, independent woman’？” She laughs, head shaking. “A man like that wants a woman who looks good on his arm and better in his bed. That’s the type of man you should pursue. Men who can take care of you, so that you’ll never have to—” Her voice clips off, jaw clicking. Smoothing down her apron, she visibly shakes off thoughts of my having to turn tricks. “Independence is a marvelous idea, but why struggle? Tristian would be such a nice match for you. Wasn’t he escorting you that night at the alumni performance? He looked interested. You should be encouraging that, not selling yourself. He won’t want you if he thinks you’re cheap and all used up.”
I stare hard at my mother, at the gold earrings and the diamond bracelet, reminding myself of everything she’s had to do to earn them, and the truth screams under my skin. I want to tell her why I walked into that pit, under the heat of lights, and cameras, and all those horrible eyes. But here, with my Lords in the other room—with Killian being injured and Dimitri probably packing a loaded gun under his jacket—it seems like a metaphorical H-bomb. This won’t be a discussion that ends in pie and ice cream. It’ll be a fucking bloodbath.