“How is wanting the same things a problem?”
“I never wanted you, Alex, I wanted everything surrounding you.” If I could stab the words into his heart, I would.
He stops shifting his feet but still holds my hand. “So you were using me? You spoke to my parents. We talked about moving in.”
I step back, freeing my hand from his grasp. I’m sick of being an idea in people’s heads. “I wanted a house and in-laws. I wanted a family. It didn’t matterwhosefamily.”
His mouth opens, then shuts. I take my chance to escape, but once again, someone steps into my path.
He’s the same height as Lance with the same dirty blonde hair, but it’s shorter and slicked back like it’s the 1940s. “We should talk.” He offers me a hand. I look at it like it might reach out and grab my neck. “It’s only a chat, Minerva. A chat and a dance.”
Every muscle in my face strains to create the deepest frown, but in the end, I take his hand.
We’ve only taken one step when I spit out, “You’ve got a lot of nerve–”
“I’mthe one with nerve?” His eyes snap to me, glowering. “I’ve been attending this gala since I was a teenager. You’re the one who's trying to make a scene.”
I catch myself in the reflection of his glasses, my face heavy with wrinkles as I scowl. “Why would I need to make a scene anyway?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs rather casually as we dance. “But I’ve never understood dramatics. I assume you’ve decided to embarrass my Mother. If I’m right, then I request you not.”
I’m taken aback by his request, my expression faltering. I glance over at his Mother, her features sunken from age, her large eyes empty, like a doll’s. I have to look away.
“Minerva?”
I try to find the anger I had before, stoke the cinders in my stomach. “Request?” I eviscerate the word. “Say it again; I need a laugh.”
He leans down and grips my hand. I can’t tell if it’s an attempt to intimidate me or if his cool persona is slipping. “Hurting my Mother won’t get you what you want.”
“How do you know what I want?”
“I don’t. But my Mother isn’t a direct line to my Father’s heart. Hurt her, and it ends there. You’ll leave an old, already broken woman more damaged than before. But maybe you’re right, and I’m wrong. Maybe that’sexactlywhat you want.”
I stiffen. “I’m not cruel like the rest of you.”
“Yet here you are,” he breathes. “Do you even know my name?”
“Lance never mentioned it.”
“Oh, good. You two have reunited.” His voice is dry and brittle like grass in the summertime. “I’m not surprised he neglected to mention us–Arthur and Nim.”
I lift a brow. “You’re also Arthur?”
“And still you think you’re at the center of our Father’s cruelty.” He rolls his eyes. I want to smack his glasses right off his face.
“Are we done? I don’t have any interest in your Mom. I only care about ruining Arthur le Fay.”
“Ruining him?” He stops our little two-step dance. “Your ambition is admirable, if not poorly planned. My Father never comes to events like this. Even if he did, he’d be more embarrassed by the doting guests than by you.” He releases my hand. “So long as I don’t have to deal with Mother’s tears, we’re done here.”
He returns to his Mother, who spots me. As her gaze lingers, I blink, wondering for the first time if she knows about me. Does she see me and know I’m a result of her husband’s infidelity? Or is she staring at me, wondering why this stranger has the same eyes as her sons? She’s so hollow, ghost-like despite the liveliness around her, so unlike my own Mother, who was walking sunshine.
Guine looks away, and I take a breath, my lungs burning after being deprived of oxygen for too long. The gnawing at my chest continues, the pain starting to spread. I have to get out of here.
I flee the dance floor, not caring where I end up. Eventually I find a quiet spot in one of the galleries and brace myself against the wall, my head heavy and hanging beneath my shoulders.
What a fucking disaster. Like my pride couldn’t be stomped and kicked enough tonight.
Rosier sees me as some poor, desperate little girl. My half-brother doesn’t see me as a threat, more like a troublesome witch trying to appear intimidating. Who knows what the rest of the family thinks of me–if I’m even worth their time. I shouldn’t care. Just like how I shouldn’t care what Amber thinks, what Alexander thinks, what my coworkers or strangers on the street think of me and my own business.
