“You’re being cruel,” she breathes.
“I’m being realistic. He’s not your equal, not in breeding, not in ambition, and certainly not in the future. He is nothing, Victoria. He comes from nothing. Look at his mother…She’s nothing too. And I will not have you lowering yourself for someone who isn’t worth the dirt on your shoes.”
Nothing.It echoes. Repeats. I can’t stop hearing it.
Silence hangs between them. Then, finally, her voice, barely a whisper. “You don’t get to decide who I care about.”
“I get to protect what’s mine.”
That’s it. That’s my breaking point.
I turn and walk the other way before I go in there and ruin something I can’t un-ruin.
The word follows me down the hall.
I avoid her that night. Don’t go to her. I can’t.
The next day, I’m still mentally cold.
I scrub the back patio until the sponge tears in half. I fix the wine cellar door and slam it just to hear it crack. My fists ache from gripping the screwdriver like a weapon instead of a tool.
I don’t talk to anyone. Not that anyone tries. Well, except Elise.
She watches me scrub the same countertop twice, eyebrows arching slowly in amusement. “What’s with you today?” She blows a bubble with her gum and pops it loudly.
“Nothing,” I clip out, wiping the counter harder.
“You look like you murdered someone in your head,” she teases, leaning her hip against the sink and studying me.
I don’t answer. Because answering means talking about it.
And I won’t do that. Especially not her.
Then she walks in.
Victoria.
She’s wearing something soft and white again. The dress floats around her thighs with each step she takes. It’s a temptation.
I love it and hate it in equal measure.
She stops walking and stands in the doorway of the kitchen. Waiting. Watching me like she’s trying to read my thoughts.
Good luck, Little Bird, even I can’t decipher what I’m feeling.
I keep scrubbing. Ignoring her, I shove the rag against the counter so hard the muscles in my forearm strain.
My body feels like it’s been through a war zone. Everything burning.
She says my name quietly but sharply, like she’s poking the bruise. I put the rag down and then walk past her. Like I’mimmune. Like the other night didn’t almost end with me kissing her senseless in the moonlight.
Because if I stop, if I look, I’ll forget what I heard.
And I can’t afford that.
I head to where I think best.
The boathouse is the only place on this estate that doesn’t try to pretend it’s something it’s not. It’s openly a piece of shit. It smells like dirt and is falling apart. But despite how gross it is, it reminds me of Victoria.
