She took casual, yet taunting steps further into the room.
“Could she have a twin? Am I just confused due to stress?”
“Th-that’s–”
“That’s not you?” She raised a brow. “Right, I thought so too. That can’t possibly be you. I mean you were right here, tending to the house. Come on, how would you have ended up in that fancy house up in Stratford Street? It’s impossible, isn’t it? Anyone that thinks it’s you must be a damn bloody fool, huh?”
“I-”
My eyes remained on the image displayed on her screen. It was taken today, a few hours ago when Zaghan was bringing me home. He was at the front and I was following behind him, arms folded across my chest as we headed for the car parked a few steps away from the stone stairs that led to the bungalow.
Whoever took it wasn’t so far away. I could almost see the dried tear stain on my left cheek, my black bra peeking throughthe open space left in the middle of my shirt, a space that would have been closed if I didn’t miss a button somehow.
I knew who took the picture. Mrs. Clara something. She should have been a private investigator or secret agent, not a damn deaconess. Her first son, an ivy league lawyer, got heavy pay cheques and lived in the most expensive part of Braemont. How unfortunate that it was the same street with Callan’s guesthouse.
“It’s him isn’t it?” Mother demanded, her eyes glittering in the way that meant she had already decided my guilt. “The same man you went out into the night to see the other day.”
My heart pounded, not because I had done anything wrong, but because I recognised her tone all too well. Calm on the surface, surgical beneath.
“If you want to whore around so badly, couldn’t you at have least done it far away from those pew-perched critics?!” she sneered. “Those damn vultures?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said the same thing I said the last time. “We were just…hanging out.”
Her lips twitched. Not a smile. No, never a smile.
“Just…hanging out, huh?” she mused, softly, as if tasting the word. Then her gaze drifted, slow and deliberate, to my desk where they all laid. My tablet, my laptop, my phone. They were all lined up neatly, like a damn offering.
“Bet you think I’m stupid, don’t you?” she asked.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I–”
But she moved fast, so fast, I didn’t see it coming, barely had time to flinch, as her palm connected with my face, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet room.
My head snapped to the side, my ear ringing as stars burst behind my eyes.
I cradled my throbbing cheek, tears spluttering from my eyes almost immediately.
I could taste it, the metallic tang of blood in my mouth as my face burned.
“I didn’t save you from that monster…” She grabbed my hand, nails digging into my skin. “…just so you can keep running into the arms of men. You want to run away, right?”
Her hold tightened, nails drawing blood. “You want to leave, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t running,” I choked, the migraine I had felt earlier, returning. “I wasn’t trying to leave–”
“Lies!” She shoved me backward, and I stumbled, catching myself before hitting the edge of my tiny, worn-out vanity. “You and your father are bloody liars. You always lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“They always leave, you know?” She paced around, voice rising. “Girls like you. Stupid, weak girls. Men take one look and think they own you. And you foolish girl, so naïve, you keep letting them.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I didn’t.” I really had no clue anymore what I was denying. I just knew my heart was wrenching, and my head was about to split in halves.
Her gaze snapped to me, crazed and burning.
“He is rich,” she said flatly. “I could tell. I saw it. The cars, the clothes. The name. Men like that are powerful. They don’t look at girls like you unless they want something.”
She turned suddenly and snatched my tablet off the table.
