“I’m willing to overlook this misstep,” Cynthia said, ignoring the jab, “so long as you modify your behavior going forward. An influential lobbyist is in town this weekend, and we’re meeting at that new restaurant on Pine Street for dinner and drinks. His son will be there, and I expect you to be as well.”
Calladia’s instincts told her this was more than a mere meeting with a lobbyist and her mother had ulterior motives. “How old is this son?”
“Thirty-five,” her mother said. “And looking to settle down.”
Yep, ulterior motives. “Absolutely not.”
Cynthia let out an exasperated sigh. “You haven’t even met the man. He’d be perfect for you.”
This ought to be rich. “How so?”
“He’s wealthy, handsome, and works in finance. He has a house in Seattle and a condo in New York City, and he travels frequently for work.”
“That sounds terrible,” Calladia said. “Why would I want a husband who travels all the time?”
Next to her, Astaroth stiffened.
“A spouse who travels is the best thing an ambitious witch can have,” Cynthia said. “Why do you think Bertrand and I get along so well? He has his life, I have mine.”
An old, familiar hurt seized Calladia’s heart. Her father had been absent for most of her life, jet-setting around the world as a consulting expert in the dismantling and selling of companies. If a company was in danger of going under, he was there to make sure the circling sharks got their teeth into it. She’d seen him on major holidays as a child, but since she’d come of age, he’d effectively vanished.
He wasn’t worth hurting over, so Calladia shoved the pain down and focused on her other shitty parent. “I don’t want your marriage,” she said. “I want someone who loves me and wants to spend time with me.”
Cynthia’s laugh was ugly. “You already had that, and you threw it away out of selfishness.”
Ice formed in Calladia’s veins. “What are you talking about?”
She knew though. There was only one boyfriend Calladia had brought home to meet her family. Only one man she’d talked about marrying, only one her status-obsessed mother had approved of.
“I’m talking about Sam, of course,” Cynthia said. “I still don’t understand why you sabotaged that relationship. He was perfect.”
“Perfectly awful,” Calladia said.
“A rich, handsome, tenured professor. Yes, that sounds dreadful.” Her mother’s tone was beyond condescending. “You were turning your life around, dressing well, meeting important people . . . do you know how high you could have risen in society? But you couldn’t bear dating anyone I approved of, could you? Just a spiteful little girl, spitting in my face every chance you get.”
The words were meant to flay Calladia to the bone. Make her weep, make her apologize. Make her regret ever abandoning perfect Sam and her mother’s dreams of a high-class, ambitious, equally perfect daughter.
Fuck perfect.
“You don’t know a thing about our relationship,” Calladia snapped. “Sam verbally and emotionally abused me.”
She had hinted at it before but never admitted it outright to her mother. It felt equally good and terrible, like scratching at a scab to expose the tender skin beneath.
Maybe that had been the problem all along. Calladia’s wounds from that first, disastrous love had never fully healed. She’d ignored the pain, instead shutting down the parts of her that were capable of love and vulnerability. And what did she have to show for that?
Anger problems, trust issues, and a relationship with her mother that had stagnated in its awfulness. She’d gotten stuck in self-destructive habits, never shaking off the weight of her trauma.
Astaroth’s fingers curled around her free hand. The heat of his skin sank into her, melting the ice in her veins. She squeezed his hand hard, using it as an anchor.
His beautiful eyes, blue like the heart of a flame, met hers. In them she saw understanding and support.
Calladia would be strong. She would be fierce. It was long past time.
Her mother didn’t respond right away. The gears in her android brain were probably ticking, calculating how to use this revelation to her own advantage. Because that’s what it always was with Cynthia Cunnington, wasn’t it? Her life. Her ambitions. Her advantage.
“I never heard Sam say a mean word to you,” Cynthia finally said.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” Calladia replied. “It happened at home.”