Some photos were of them together, my father younger and smiling more than I had ever seen.
In one of the photos, she wore a beautiful white dress and veil, and my father was in a tux, holding her face while kissing her. In another, he looked at her as if she were the only person alive.
That one stopped me cold.
He had never looked at my mother like that.
I didn't understand it. I was thirteen and still believed in fairy tales and that my mom was the love of my dad's life. So I just asked her.
"Mom," I said, holding up one of the prints, "why does Dad have pictures of this lady in his desk?"
I'll never forget her face—it was like someone had drained all the color from it, and she had completely forgotten I was there. Storming into his office like a tornado, she ripped out every single drawer and froze when the pictures spilled out across the floor. With a shaky hand, she grabbed the one by her feet. In it, the redhead was blowing a kiss at the camera.
Her voice cracked me like a whip, "Go to your room, Elise."
I did, but I snuck out and peeked around the corner to see what she was doing. I watched, confused, as she lit the fireplace in the grand living room, carried the drawer of photos over to it, and started tossing the pictures in, one by one. She didn't speak, she just watched as the flames disintegrated every memory.
My father got home just in time to watch her toss in the last ones.
The sound from his mouth wasn't human, and the look on his face was pure rage. He lunged for the fireplace while my mother tossed in the last photo with a smirk, her chin raised in defiance. He tried to grab them from the fire and burned his hands, then exploded with a fury that still made me scared to think about.
I retreated to my room—to my closet—covering my ears with my hands. I listened to them rage at each other until the house shook, their screams bled through the walls for hours.
After that night, they seemed to enter a cold war, barely speaking to each other but not showing full-on animosity. My mother drank more and ate less, while my father spent more time in his office in the city. I didn't ask questions, and I somehow understood that I wasn't enough to fill in the gap that stretched between them.
When I was fourteen, I wanted to go shopping with my friends as we normally did on Fridays. So, I went to my father's office, walking right past his assistant before she could finish her warning.
"Miss Cabot, I'll let him know that—"
I scoffed at her and walked right up to his door, shoving it open. I'm his princess, I don't need an appointment to see him.
"Daddy, can I have—" I walked into his office and froze.
He was sitting at his desk, hunched slightly forward, eyes locked on his laptop screen. His face was... haunting. A weird combination of heartbreak and love that made me stumble.
My father never looked at me—or my mom—with even a fraction of that emotion before. He looked up when he saw me and tried—and failed—to smile. He stood from the desk and hugged me like he always did—one-armed, distracted—already reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
The black card was placed in my hand, and he patted me on the head. "Go have fun."
And I tried, but all afternoon, I couldn't shake what I saw on his laptop—he didn't click away in time.
A family photo, posted on social media. That pretty redhead from those pictures was being embraced from behind by an incredibly handsome man, who was gazing down at her as if she were his entire world. On either side of her were two boys, twins, who looked like carbon copies of that man with the redhead's green eyes. They held onto her tightly, beaming at the camera while she smiled brightly, beautifully.
The four of them stood in front of a glittering Christmas tree. They looked happy. They looked like theybelongedtogether. They looked like arealfamily—something you only see in movies.
When I got home, I asked my mother, and that was the night she spilled itallto me, deciding that I was old enough to know the ways of the world. She poured herself a martini and stirred it lazily as she explained the way women get ahead in this life.
The beginning of her and my father came at the expense of Claire Kensington, his first wife, that pretty redhead. She cackled—actually cackled—as she regaled me about the PR spin:they took total control of the narrative.He and Bella fell madly in love. Claire, ever the graceful, heartbroken saint of a woman, bowed out, not wanting to stand in the way of their happily ever after.
"That stupid, barren bitch didn't even know I was fucking him right under her nose," she smirked, sipping from the glass in her hand.
My mother told me with pride, and at that moment, she had never looked more powerful to me.
I had always held an awe for my mother—simultaneously terrified and worshipful of this woman who birthed me, who pushed me to be the very best because she knew I could be, who loved me above all because she expected better from me.
That was the day that I truly understood the world.
My father was weak, but he was useful.
