“He’s a smooth-talking weasel.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
“The man only cares about himself.”
“Narcissistic pervert.” Ines’s voice resonates through the kitchen. “That’s the clinical term for what he is.” She zips up her leather jacket, features harder than I’ve ever seen them. Eyes darker, too. She looks terrible. “He’ll lure you in with pretty words. And then he’ll demolish you piece by piece tomake himself pass as a savior when he affords you a crumb of affection.”
My eyes spasm. “I know what a narcissistic pervert is, Ines.”
“Yet you’ve agreed to meet him,” she says as she walks toward my front door.
She pauses there, with her fingers wrapped around the handle. Is she waiting for Malachi to join her, or for me to change my mind?
If it’s the latter, she’ll be dangling off my door all night since I intend to see this meeting through. I might not be looking for a parent, but I wouldn’t mind closure.
Besides, what if she made up Gael’s despicable character to fit her shitty-husband narrative?
I’m showeredand dressed by the time Mom informs me that Gael Monta’s chauffeured SUV has pulled up in front of my building.
I surprisingly slept well. Unlike my poor mother, whose eyes are rimmed with fatigue. And not from dusting and rearranging every decorative object on the built-in living room shelves, or from stocking my kitchen with an absurd amount of groceries.
“How did you have nothing edible in your fridge?” she asks, grabbing a carton of oat milk and splashing some over her espresso.
“Because I don’t like leftovers and I don’t cook.”
My answer seems to dash against her skull as she glares at the front door.
“I could feed a small army.” When Mom keeps glowering at the entrance of my house, I can’t help but chirp, “Refrain from committing Montacide until I get some chat time, okay?”
She grunts before saying. “Your real father’s on his way.”
Surprise puckers my forehead. “Really?”
“Too much excitement across the pond for him to sit still on his rock. He told me he wrote you.”
A corner of my mouth lifts as I picture my father depleting his magic to propel the jet flying him over the Atlantic. “Forgot to plug in my phone. It’s charging now. Is Dad staying until breakfast tomorrow? I arranged for Cillian to come over then.”
“If it’s not overwhelming, I’m sure he’d love to meet your boyfriend.”
“Not my boy?—”
“But if you think it’s too much, your father can go hunker down at Dorian’s.”
I don’t have time to answer, because the door has just clicked.
Mom’s worried eyes bounce back to me. “Why don’t you come home with us tomorrow?”
I don’t have time to give her an answer before I hear two sets of footsteps thump against the hardwood floors. My biological father walks ahead of Dorian, his blue eyes laser-focused on what he can see of me beyond the kitchen island.
“My beautiful daughter,” Gael murmurs, seemingly awestruck. Perhaps he is. After all, he made me.
If he truly is a narcissistic pervert, then he’ll find no flaw in his creation. Right?
Mom sets down her mug and reaches for my hand, body language screamingmine. “Good morning, Gael.”
“It is, ain’t it, Malika? A most wonderful start to my day.” He never once looks away from me as he unzips his camel suede jacket, revealing a white V-neck beneath. “I wanted to bringAlexander, but Dorian insisted it be just the two of us. Well, the four of us.”
The doorbell chimes.
