I swallow hard, wanting to tell her thatyes, actually, I have screwed up yet again, but instead, I summon that familiar, practiced smile and say, "I have no idea what you mean."
She exhales a pained breath and takes a step closer. "Don't act like a child. Why is he here?"
I roll my eyes. "Because his wife runs a beauty brand from here, that's why."
"Are you lying to me?" She tilts her head, eyes narrowing on me as I shake my head. "Emma, I'm your mother. I know when you are lying. I knew it the second you opened that door."
"I'm not lying," I snap.
She drags in another pained breath. "Richard called me a few days ago. He had concerns."
I blink. Richard called her? About me?
Of course, now it all makes sense—the surprise visit, the biscuits, the casualness. They set it up.
"What kind of concerns?" I mutter.
She ignores my question and steps closer, eyes darting around to see if the rain is listening. "If you've done anything, stop right now. Erase all traces—"
"Stop, Mom."
"Richard is a respectable man, he won't tolerate—"
"Mom—"
"The consequences will be catastrophic." Her voice spikes. She glances around again and tunes it to a whisper. "You know that. He would never tolerate any of that. You'd lose everything."
When I glare at her, she crosses her arms, eyes sharp. "With a married man? Really? For God's sake, what do you think are his intentions with you, other than ruining your life?"
Her words find the cracks in me, just like always.
I drag in a breath, steadying the chaos inside me. Count five cabs passing by in the streetlight and imagine stepping into any of them, leaving her behind.
Then I realize she's the one to go.
"Do you want me to call you a cab?" I ask, my voice tired, and her eyes instantly flare at my dismissal.
A beat.
Then she spits a razor-sharp "no" before storming off, shaking her head with visible disappointment, knowing I'll see it and it'll cut.
I hate that she's right and it does.
But worst of all, I hate that she's right about more than that.
What the hell am I doing?
22
He's late, which makes me furious because I've spent the last hour talking myself out of this.
I pace the long corridor on the top floor, checking my phone every thirty seconds, and each time the thought sneaks in more—it's not just my time he doesn't value; it's me. I'm only a convenient distraction.
My mother's voice loops in my head: "What are his intentions?" She knows the stupidity that's always defined me. The kind that tempts you now and punishes you later.
Like when I was six and stuck my finger straight into the blue part of the birthday candle flame because I wanted to know how something so soft-looking could burn, how it felt.
Only this time I'm twenty-seven and the thing that's burning is my marriage.
