There’s a sharp knock on the door, which startles me a little.
Mom pulls her hand away from my hair, making sure to give it a rough tug as she does, and turns toward the door.
I grit my teeth as pain shoots through the side of my skull, and when I look down at her fingers, I see a couple of long, pink strands wrapped tightly around them.
I swallow my rage and try to breathe in and out at a steady pace.
I feel like despite everything she’s been through, and everything that she has chosen to do in her life, she should at leastattemptat being understanding towards my choices. Instead of hating me for wanting things that she, too, probably once wanted, but never received, she should be happy thatIachieved them. Instead of hating me with her entire being for how I present myself and live my damn life, she should at least take pride in the fact that I haven’t let society dictate their rules and regulations on me. That I’ve driven down my own road whilst also creating new paths for myself that only take me in directions Iwannago to.
But I guess expecting any of that from her would be like wishing for the sky to turn neon or some shit, so I’ve given up hope on that front.
Steven opens the door and steps back, and a young man – Waleed Najimi, I believe his name is – swaggers in and smiles at Mom.
He’s wearing a greyish-blue suit with a white dress shirt, and brown Oxfords. And, with his dark hair coiffed, his facial hair trimmed way too precisely – along with the Patek Philippe Ref. 1518 around his left wrist, of course – he screams undeniably of wealth and status.
“Dearest,” he says to Mom, then walks over to her. He gives me a brief nod of acknowledgment, then looks at Mom again.
“The new caterers are here,” he tells her in that very-hard-to-understand accent of his. Pair that with his flat voice, and you’ve got a recipe for an ear assault. “They have agreed to overtake buffet facilities for the ball, despite the lateness, and are also ready to accommodate our custom menu. If you can spare an hour of your time, I need you in the office with me so that we can go over the specifics and pricings with them.”
Everyone at the HQ knows that Mom’s banging Waleed. I mean, the two of them have done nothing short of a disastrous job of hiding their fling from Mom’s employees. At this point, there’re so many made-up, fanfic-like stories about their spontaneous sexcapades buzzing around every corner of the HQ, that it’s physicallyimpossibleto elude them.
And, it wouldn’t be such a zit in the ass if that was all I had to hear about the two of them. But, you see, itisa zit – a massive, painful one at that – because the #1 thing everyone at theLureHQ can’t stop talking about is the age difference between Mom and Waleed. And to top it off, they keep addingmyname into their gossip sessions.
Miss Adler’s new investor/fuckboy is younger than Cignette!
Oh dear, Miss Adler is getting railed by a 25-year-old petrol empire heir. Talk about being a stereotypical cougar.
Honestly, I wanna know what Cignette thinks of her mother having sex with a guy who’s half her age. Shouldn’tshebe the one getting some of that exotic dick instead of Miss Adler?
I know, I know; it’s wrong to shame someone for their sexual preferences. But hey, it’s mymomthese people are tattling about, so let’s not jump onto the defense boat here, alright?
Alright.
“Of course,” Mom says in regards to Waleed’s request of assisting him in finalizing the caterers.
He smiles again, and all but glides over to the door before pushing it open for her like the chivalrous man that he is.
Mom chuckles – yeah, she actuallychuckles– before striding out of the room with him and Steven without so much as a glance in my direction.
“Typical,” I mutter under my breath, careful not to let the others hear it.
9.
Utter silence has filled the room after Mom’s exit. Julian is glancing at Melina, who in turn is glancing at me.
I glance at the stylists on the far end (I wish I remembered their names, but I really don’t), and they glance right back in my direction.
It’s intense; it’s confusing.
It’s kind of weird as well, come to think of it.
I’m in the middle of connecting visual stare-dots with Julian, when Mave suddenly clears his throat, making me jerk.
When I look at him, he arches a brow at me. It’s basically his way of silently asking me if I’m okay.
I realize my body is rigid, so I relax a little and wink at him to let him know that I am, indeed, okay.
He sighs in evident relief. “We done here?” he asks Julian.
