And then I’ll never let her go again.
Nineteen
ANYA
Istare at my mom in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat.
Her eyes widen in shock as recognition dawns across her face. The dress she’s holding in her hands falls to the floor.
I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even process what I’m seeing.
“Anya?” Her voice is the same. The gentle cadence I’ve tried so hard to forget. “Oh, my god.”
Standing beside her is the bastard who kidnapped me. Bruce, or whatever his name is, looks between us with confusion etched across his face.
“I’ll get her ready,” my mother says suddenly, her voice taking on a brisk, professional tone. She places a hand on his chest, pushing him back into the hallway. “Go tell Keith we’re starting. She needs time to process.”
Bruce hesitates, shooting me a suspicious glance, but finally nods and steps back. My mother closes the door with a definitive click, then turns the lock with trembling fingers. For a long moment, she just stares at me, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
I find my voice at last. “You’re working with them?” The words burst from my lips, sharp with disbelief. “You left me for these criminals? Or are they your new family?”
Her face crumples, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Anya, baby…”
“Don’t you dare call me that!” I whisper, surging to my feet. “You have no right! You abandoned me! For years, I wondered what I did wrong, why you didn’t love me enough to stay, and all this time you were fucking a bunch of criminals.”
My mother, Amanda, flinches, swiping tears from her eyes. “I’m going to help you get out of here,” she says, her voice steadier now. “But first, you need to put on the dress and let me do your makeup.”
I bark out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Are you fucking serious? You think I’m going to play dress-up while those men plan to sell me off to the highest bidder? Who do you think I am?”
“Anya, please,” she pleads, bending to pick up the dress from the floor. “I know how this looks, but you have to trust me. We don’t have much time.”
“You expect me to trust you?” I snarl, backing away from her. “After leaving me with a father who never looked at me and a stepmother who made sure I knew I wasn’t wanted? You expect me to do whatever you say?”
Pain flashes across her face, but she holds the dress out to me with stubborn determination. “Yes. Because I’m your mother, and I’m trying to save your life.”
The white fabric gleams under the harsh overhead light—some kind of silk or satin, with lace trim and a ridiculous amount of sequins and beads. It looks like a wedding dress, but cheaper, flashier, like something from a discount bridal shop.
“No,” I say firmly, crossing my arms over mychest. “I’m not putting that on. Either you help me escape now, or I’ll find a way out myself.”
“We need to hurry,” she insists, stepping closer. “Please, Anya.”
Something in her voice convinces me that she’s really scared. She doesn’t want to see me hurt, so I quickly comply and shove the dress on.
A whiff of her familiar vanilla scent overwhelms me, and a barrage of memories hits me. Bedtime stories with different voices for each character. Her arms around me when I fell off my bike, her voice telling me I’m brave. The way she’d brush my hair every night, and her fingers so gentle against my scalp.
I fall to my knees, the dress clutched to my chest, sobs tearing from my throat. It’s too much seeing her here, finding out she’s working for these monsters, feeling her scent again after so long.
The emotions crash through me unexpectedly, breaking down the walls I’ve built to protect myself.
“Oh, Anya,” my mother whispers, and then she’s on her knees too, her arms around me, pulling me against her chest. I fight for a moment, pushing against her shoulders, but she holds firm, one hand cradling the back of my head as she used to when I was small. “I’m so, so sorry.”
We cry together, her tears mixing with mine, her body shaking with each sob. I’m vaguely aware that I should be angry, that I should push her away, demand answers, but all I can think about is how much I’ve missed her.
When the worst of the crying subsides, she pulls back just enough to cup my face in her hands, her thumbs wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I had to leave,” she says, her voice raw. “To protect you.”
“Protect me from what?” I ask, my voice thick with tears.
She shakes her head, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “From him. From Keith.”
