“Part of my charm.” I turn back to the fridge, pulling out eggs, butter, and bacon. “My mom always said I could talk my way out of anything except her kitchen rules.”
“Tell me about her?” Cora asks, settling onto a barstool at the counter.
I pause, surprised by her interest. Most women I’ve been with don’t ask about my family.
“She was amazing. Worked two jobs most of my childhood but still made dinner every night.” I crack eggs into a bowl, focusing on the task to keep my voice steady. “Taught me how to cook, how to iron my own shirts, how to sweet-talk my way through life.”
“Is she still...?”
“No.” I glance up at her. “Cancer, five years ago.”
Cora’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well. Life’s a bitch sometimes.” I shrug, then flash her a smile to lighten the mood. “But she’d be proud I’m putting her lessons to good use.”
I move around the kitchen, pulling out a frying pan. The familiar motions center me.
“What about you? Your mom teach you anything worth knowing?”
Cora’s expression changes instantly, something darkening behind those green eyes of hers. Fuck. I immediately regret asking about her mom.
“My mother died when I was six,” she says quietly, staring into her coffee cup. “Cancer.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” I pause in the middle of whisking eggs, feeling like a complete asshole. “I didn’t know.”
She shrugs, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. “Not something I talk about much. I barely remember her now, just fragments. Her perfume. The way she’d sing while brushing my hair.”
I set down the whisk and lean against the counter, giving her my full attention. Something tells me she doesn’t share this kind of thing often.
“Must’ve been rough, growing up with just your dad.”
Especially that asshole.
Cora’s fingers tighten around her mug. “That’s when it started, you know. The beatings.”
My body tenses immediately.
“After mom died, he changed.” Her voice drops so low I lean in to hear her. “It was just little spanks at first. When I’d make too much noise or ask too many questions about her.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. Fucking Pike. I’d hated the man for his anti-gambling stance that cost me contracts, but this is a whole different level.
“Then they got worse,” Cora continues, staring into her coffee like she’s reading the memories there. “As I got older, it escalated. A slap for talking back. A belt for staying out too late.”
I fight the urge to touch her, sensing she needs space to get through this.
“And then there were the women,” she says with a bitter laugh. “God, so many of them. One after another. He’d charm them, move them in, and eventually, they’d get it too.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, unable to keep quiet.
“I’d hear it happening. The fights, the slaps, the crying.” She takes a shaky breath. “Some of them were kind to me. Most just tried to stay out of his way.”
She looks at me finally, her eyes clearer now, anger replacing the sadness.
“And then there’s Addison. The trophy wife who finally stuck.” Cora’s mouth twists into something that’s not quite a smile. “She pretends not to see it when he hurts me. Looks the other way. We don’t exactly get along.”
I want to break something. Preferably, William Pike’s face. The righteous, holier-than-thou politician who built his reputation on family values while terrorizing his own daughter and partners behind closed doors.
“Why do you still live with him?” I ask, unable to keep the anger from my voice. My hands grip the edge of the counter, so I don’t punch something.
