It slices deeper than inappropriate.
"I'm happy," I repeat, but it sounds weaker now, like I'm trying to convince myself as much as them.
Dad shakes his head slowly. "You're infatuated."
"I'm not. I love him," I repeat, eyes welling with tears.
Mom takes deep breaths.
Dad's jaw flexes so hard, I think he might crack a tooth.
He claims, "You don't know what love is in this situation."
Something inside me snaps. I push back, "You don't get to define my feelings. You don't get to rewrite my reality because it makes you uncomfortable."
Dad's voice drops to a cold whisper. "If this becomes public, it will destroy him. Do you want that? Because if you love him like you say you do, you wouldn't want that."
My stomach flips. "It's not going public."
"You're his patient."
"Was. And there's no trace of it, so it's never going public," I inform them.
Dad's eyes turn to slits.
"Blue, what do you mean by that?" Mom asks.
My pulse skyrockets. Ice floods my veins. I don't think and relay, "Mikhail and Aunt Kora took care of it."
Dad's head jerks backward.
Mom's mouth hangs open, and her face turns pale.
"What in hell does that mean, Blue?" Dad pushes.
I don't answer, breathing how Red taught me.
"Answer me," he orders, nostrils flaring.
"Ask them. But your reputations are safe, so don't worry," I answer.
Dad leans closer. "This has nothing to do with our reputations and everything to do with yours. He's exploited you!"
"He didn't exploit me!"
Dad slams his palm lightly on the table, not enough to make a scene but enough to make the wine tremble in our glasses. "You're his patient."
The finality in his tone makes my ears ring. I look to Mom for something. Maybe support. Perhaps neutrality. Anything that shows she's partly on my side, but she only looks hurt and betrayed.
Crap. I threw Aunt Kora under the bus.
"I need air." I jump up too quickly. The room tilts slightly as I grab my clutch and step away from the table. I make it through the dining room, past couples laughing, and servers gliding gracefully with trays of edible art.
By the time I push through the doors and into the cool night air, my hands are shaking. This was supposed to be the beginning. Instead, it feels like a declaration of war.
I press my palm to my chest, trying to steady my breathing and racing heart. Sharp pains stab me. I bend over and dig my nails into my upper thigh, trying to get that pain to overtake the ones in my chest.
The city hums around me, indifferent. Cars pass. Someone laughs down the block. Life continues as if mine hasn't just fractured.
