“Christ, Mother, you’re rich enough!” I rubbed my temples, a headache starting. “Did you even love Dad?” I asked, hurting for my long-departed father. He died when I was eight, devastating me, but Mother married not even a year later to a man with deep pockets.
She took another sip of her health drink. “Yes. I did love him. You are all that I have left of him.” Her expression softened, her gaze skimming my face. “You are so young, Charlotte. An idealist, just like Terrell,” she said with a weary sigh.
I knew she had the capacity to love without the dollar signs attached. This was why I kept hoping she’d settle for a more genuine emotion again.
“But life is a cutthroat business,” she continued as if to drill into me the importance of money. “Terrell died and left us almost penniless. His death benefits barely kept us surviving. So I did what I had to.”
And so she’d married husband number two and three, then Charles Dupont, the newspaper tycoon. He’d finally given her the status and lifestyle she craved.
“Yes, I marry rich. It’s the only thing that counts. Those without money, you have fun with them and move on.” Her expression hardened, shedding the facade of the fragile woman people rushed to help, revealing the steel core most people never saw. A woman who went through five marriages to wealthy men to afford her the lifestyle she’d grown accustomed to. And now she was currently on her sixth.
“Money is power and what people understand,” she said. “And you, my dear daughter, you will learn that soon enough. Men might cheat on me, but I will always have collateral.”
I couldn’t do this any longer, fight the same battles.
“Fine, I get it, Mother.” Maybe years too late. “It’s your life. I have to go.”
“Oh, Charlotte.” She sighed as if I was the difficult one. “You’ll understand one day. Anyway…” She smiled, dismissing all my hurts and embarrassments as inconsequential.
I pivoted for the door.
“I see you’re making waves on social media.”
Her words stopped me dead. Slowly, I faced her, my heart hammering against my sternum. I just wanted to move on, forget this debacle of her coming onto War, but it wasn’t to be.
She gave me a little smile and patted my arm. “War, badboy and hockey sensation, darling of the media, who signed a lucrative deal with a top sports brand a few months ago. Just make sure the prenup’s well worth it. Those types always stray.”
I stared at her, my fingers clenching on my bags. That was it? Did she not even remember him?
“You came onto him! Kissed him!” I yelled.
She stared at me, her brow creasing. “Oh, I don’t recall. I greet many in the continental way.” She waved it off. “Besides, I don’t throw myself at the men I plan to marry. I wait for them to come to me. It’s how you play your cards, Charlotte. They like the chase, keep that in mind.”
Christ, this wasn’t happening. Feeling as if I were caught in a riptide, I wheeled around for the door, yanked it open, and stormed out of the house.
* * *
War straightened from the truck the moment he saw me and strode across the street. “What happened?”
I swallowed, and the hard lump of anger and frustration stuck in my throat felt like a lodged boulder. If I spoke, I’d probably break down. So, I shook my head.
His mouth tightening, he took the duffle and suitcase from me, and we crossed the street.
How could I tell him of the horrid rumors I had to endure as a child, because of her shenanigans, until she married Charles? The only man who treated me, the wary, introverted teenager, as if I mattered. Those five years were peaceful until my first year at college, when he died from a heart attack. The pain of losing him cut as deep as my own father’s had.
Her other husbands regarded me as someone who was just a thought. Invisible at most.
As we headed out of Pacific Heights, I shut my burning eyes.
If Ila were still single, I would have crashed with her and spilled my woes. But she had her new life, and I had mine—such as it was—and I couldn’t intrude.
I’d have to book into a hotel until I left for New York this weekend, pointless looking for an apartment now.
A silent drive and an hour and a half later, War turned onto the slip road in Santa Cruz leading to his property. Dark clouds swirled across the sky, blocking the sun and dulling the day further. At least it would be cooler to work outside. The breeze had picked up, too.
“It looks like rain,” he murmured, peering through the windshield as he drove along the gravel road to the beach house.
What was I supposed to say? I knew he was trying to talk to me, to close this space between us. But how could I when my mother had ruined everything, her words ringing in my ears?
