She swallows and places a hand on my chest. “Please…” Her voice breaks, and I watch as tears fall down her cheeks. She flinches when they touch the scar on her right one, then sniffs before saying, “Please,” again.
I’m so fucking enraged at her stubbornness that I can barely control it. I slap the mattress with my free hand – hard enough to make Cignette gasp – and tighten my grip on the back of her neck before pressing her forehead to mine.
“Fuckingtellme,” I all but command. “Because if you don’t, then I swear on everything I hold dear, I will rip through everyone who’s inandaround this damn house right now just to get you to name this person.”
Cignette is fully crying now. “I can’t,” she says between her tears. “You don’t get it; I can’t.”
“It’s not that youcan’t,” I tell her. “You simplywon’t. And why? Because you’re scared of whoever is responsible for your state?” I’m not proud of provoking her like this, but I need to know what she’s not telling me. And if I’ve gotta play dirty to get what I want, then I’ll do it.
Cignette jerks her head back and glares at me with pure rage in her dark eyes. “Fuckyou.” She moves forward and pushes me in the chest, then groans and clutches her stomach.
What the hell?
I reach for her and grab her hoodie. She tries to shove my hands, but I don’t let go, and instead, yank at her hem. “Lift your ass,” I order.
She stares at me for a moment, and when she realizes I’m not giving up, she huffs and does what I’ve told her to.
“Good girl,” I say to her, then raise her hoodie all the way to her collarbone, only to inhale a sharp breath when I see her stomach.
The bruise is purple – exactly like the one on her face – and starts just above the waistband of her underwear, covering almost her entire stomach. It’s deeper at the bottom, but fades out completely along the underside of her breasts.
My chest tightens at the sight of it; I can’t stop looking at it. My hands shake in anger, and heat rises in the back of my neck as I lift my gaze to Cignette.
“Did you get yourself checked out?” I inquire, then drop her hoodie back down.
She shakes her head. “Mave helped me ice it, and I’ve been taking painkillers.” She pushes her hair behind her ears and gives me a hesitant look. “It...it usually heals in a few days.”
I blink at her in absolute disbelief. “Usually?” I raise my arms by my sides. “How often does this fuckinghappen, Cignette? And who fuckingdoesthis to you?”
She swallows, and fresh tears start falling down her crestfallen face. She closes her eyes, lowers her head, and sniffs before saying, “I just…” She bows her head further. “It’s…” She stops, then sniffs again. She brings her hands over her thighs and clenches them into fists. “It’s my mom,” she finally reveals.
I don’t even know why I’m shocked, or why I didn’t think it was Miranda who’d done this to Cignette. That woman is cunning in the most extreme of ways, and I don’t think she possesses a single humble bone in her botoxed body. But even then, Cignette is her fuckingdaughter. What could she have possibly done to deserve any of this?
“Confused?” Cignette asks, then chuckles humorlessly. She lifts her head and looks at me. “You must think I live a perfectly uptight life, don’t you?”
“Will you blame me if I say yes?” I counter.
“No,” she answers. “I do keep up quite a visage, so it’s only natural for people to be fooled by it.”
I scan her face, then get to my feet before coming to sit next to her on the bed. “Why, though?” I question. “Why does she do it? And you said it happens often, too, so I’m beyond confused.” I wanna skin Miranda alive, but first, I wanna know her motive; I need some intel.
I’m also trying not to bring back the memories of my past – ones I’ve done everything in my power to burn to ashes. Because really, it’s useless going back in time and reliving the pain, the insults, and the hunger. It only affects my present and destabilizes my future.
Cignette sighs, pulling me out of my thoughts. She then goes on to tell me that her mother has been doing this to her since she was a kid, and that her uncle defends Miranda instead of siding with her. And, as she continues to list every incident from over the years, the reasons behind said incidents start to get more and more…ridiculous.Especiallywhen she explains what happened a few hours ago.
“Adress?” I voice, and my resolve to skin Miranda Adler alive grows firmer as I try to let every detail set in.
“For the charity gala this Saturday,” Cignette adds. “The dress isn’t even ready yet – physically, I mean. It’s merely a sketch on paper, but Mom must’ve seen it and thought I was planning on upstaging her during the event.”
“But why?”
Cignette scoffs. “She’s insecure, jealous. She clearly thinks my dress outshines whatever she’s had made for herself for this gala, so she thought she’d do this,” she gestures at her face, “to compensate for her lack of vision for fashion.”
“But it’s not a damn competition, is it? It’s a charity event. Why does what one wear to such a thing, matter at all?”
Cignette blinks up at me. “Because it’s always been like this with her,” she says, then smiles ruefully. “She’s always felt the need to compete, to rise above others. I think, in a way, she feels like if she doesn’t, then she’ll be left behind. Can’t say she’s wrong, especially given her status and profession, but most of the time, she forgetswhoshe’s competing with. In her craze to be on top of the chain, she’s blinded herself to basic humanity and empathy.” She clears her throat. “Even towards me.”
I open my mouth, but literallynothingcomes out.
