FUN FACT: FAMILY DINNERS HIT DIFFERENT WHEN YOU’RE HIDING A FAKE ENGAGEMENT. #UNIVERSEHASENTEREDTHECHAT
DAKOTA
“Welcome to your battlefield.”
Damn Axel Pierce to the deepest circle of hell.
I swear, he got OFF on making me squirm. But whatever. At least I got to escape him for a couple of hours, spending time with two people who made this whole ordeal worth it.
Then, it was back to my own personal prison. My first night with Axel Peirce … and our first public appearance.
Was it too late to fake my own death and start a new life in another country?
The crunch of gravel under my tires matched the grinding in my chest as I spotted her.
Mom sat hunched at the base of her weatherworn ramp, wrestling with a splintered board and a toolbox that had seen better decades. The wood was soft with rot in places, the grain dark, where water had seeped in winter after winter.
My chest squeezed. Here she was, fixing things herself because they couldn’t afford to hire anyone. The ramp’s two-by-fours were a patchwork of lumber: some gray and aged, others newer pine and still yellow. Each replacement done as boards failed, one crisis at a time.
“Mom, what are you doing out here?” I grabbed the grocery bag from my back seat, my voice artificially light.
The concrete walk beneath my feet was webbed with cracks, dandelions forcing their way through, like the yard had given up the fight, and as I got closer, I noticed how rust bloomed orange across the hinges of the toolbox. Inside, I could see the mismatched collection: screws in three different sizes, rattling loose, and a hammer with electrical tape around the split handle.
“Oh, this old thing.” She gestured at the ramp with forced casualness. “It’s bowing again. Don’t want your father falling through when he takes the trash out.”
When he takes the trash out. Not when she needs to use it. Always worried about everyone else, never herself.
I knelt beside her wheelchair, taking the wooden board from her lap. The surface was rough, splintering under my palm, and I could feel where she’d tried to sand it smooth with what looked like an old piece of sandpaper, worn down to the backing.
With the brand deal, I could install custom permanent ramps. Everywhere she needed them. Hell, I could renovate this entire house so she never had to struggle again. Replace the gutters hanging crooked from the roofline, fix the porch light that had been dark for months, get rid of the duct tape holding the mailbox together.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?”
I forced a smile. “Nothing. Just thinking about work.”
She evaluated me, the way only a mom could, sensing something was wrong that I wouldn’t talk about.
“You know … you always try to make everything seem perfect. But sometimes I wonder if you forget it’s okay for things to just be real.”
Real. The word lodged in my throat like a stone. Real wasn’t marketable. Real didn’t pay the bills or house repairs or the thousand small emergencies that seemed to multiply every month. Real was the luxury I couldn’t afford.
I pushed at the warped board with my fingers, trying to force it back into place. The wood splintered without warning, slicing pain across my palm as a jagged edge caught skin and tore. Blood welled instantly, bright red against pale flesh.
“Dakota?” Mom’s voice sharpened with concern.
I curled my fingers into a fist, trapping the blood inside, and shoved my hand behind my back. “Just a splinter. No big deal.” The smile I gave her was practiced, perfect. The same one I used for every sponsored post. “Board’s in place at least. I’m going to find some tweezers to get the splinter out.”
She studied me, that mother’s radar pinging, but I kept the smile steady. Kept my bleeding hand hidden.
“You sure you’re all right?”
“Perfect,” I said, kissing her forehead. “You coming inside?”
“I’ll be in shortly.” Her eyes narrowed at another board.
Inside, I quickly cleaned the wound, thankful an oversized Band-Aid covered the cut. Then I washed my hands again and pulled ingredients for chicken piccata—Dad’s favorite—and got to work, making lunch. It wasn’t long before the front door opened and he shuffled inside with a bakery bag.
“There’s my girl.” His smile was genuine despite everything, and I hugged him tight, breathing in his familiar scent of discount aftershave. My injured hand throbbed against his back, but I didn’t let go.
