“I’m not a child, remember?” I taunt, dangling the phone just out of her reach. “You can’t forbid me to do shit.”
“If you tell him, you’ll destroy this family,” she says, her voice shaking. “Is that what you want? Think of your brother.”
“My brother?” I laugh in her face. “Which one? The one who won’t take to us anymore, or the one who’s now MARKED me like I’m his property?”
Something flickers across my mother’s face. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that cool, controlled mask.
“You know nothing about your brother or what he’s been through,” she says, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You think you’re the only victim here? Aurelio almost died because of?—“
“Don’t you dare bring Aurelio into this!” I scream, advancing on her until she backs into my desk. “What happened to him is your fault. I can’t prove it but I just fucking know it. Look at what you’ve done to me just to cover your own lies. What other skeletons are hiding in your closet, Mother?”
Her face goes white as paper, and for a second I think I’ve actually struck a nerve deep enough to pierce her armor. But then her mask slips back on, smooth and perfect.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” she hisses, her composure cracking just enough to let the venom seep through. “After everything I’ve done to protect you?—“
“Protect me?” I’m so angry I can barely see straight. “Is that what you call all this? Mother, I would have been better off left behind when you came back here or an orphan.”
She slaps me hard across the face, the crack of her palm against my cheek echoing in the small room. I stagger back, more from shock than pain. My mother has never hit me before.
“Enough,” she says, her voice deadly quiet. “You will not tell your father. You will attend the game tonight as I no doubt Lucien expects you to. You will play your role. And I will find a way to fix it. But until then, you will do as you’re told.”
I touch my stinging cheek, a strange calm washing over me. “Get out.”
“Seraphina—“
“GET THE FUCK OUT!” I scream, pointing at the door. “Before I call Lucien and tell him how you assaulted me. How would that look for the perfect Mariella Carvelli, hmm? Do wethink The Heir will take too kindly that someone regardless of who they are laid hands on his Chosen? Do we think he’ll cut the hand off that touched me? I think he might. The Devil is owed his due and all.”
She stares at me, and for a moment I see something like fear in her eyes. Then she straightens her jacket, adjusts her pearls, and walks to the door with that regal posture that makes me want to break something.
“This isn’t over,” she says, hand on the doorknob.
“It never fucking is with you,” I reply coldly.
After she’s gone, I sink to the floor, my legs suddenly unable to support me. My cheek throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I’ve never talked to my mother like that before. Never stood up to her so completely.
I refuse to be held down by the weight of being the perfect daughter. Of appeasing my mother even when I toe the line.
It stops today, now and forever.
Chapter 13
Seraphina
Revenge is better when it’s wearing someone else’s jersey.
I stare at my phone screen, scrolling through the roster of St. Augustine’s opponent tonight—the Westfield Wolves. My finger stops on number 19, power forward Jackson Reid. Six-foot-three, dark hair, killer smile in his team photo. Their star player with NBA prospects. Perfect.
The game starts in an hour, and I wasn’t going to go. I really wasn’t. But after my mother’s visit, after Lucien’s little closet stunt this morning—something in me has snapped. Clean in half. The perfect Society daughter is dead, and what’s left is pure, undiluted rage.
I dial a number I haven’t used in months. Three rings later, a familiar voice answers.
“Seraphina Carvelli. What kind of trouble are you looking for today?”
“Hey, Nicholas.” I smile despite myself. Nicholas Taylor, my father’s most efficient fixer. The man who can get anything, anytime, anywhere. “I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need a Westfield Wolves basketball jersey. Number 19. Jackson Reid. Within the hour.”
