Page 96 of Souls and Sorrows

Where did that even come from?

My mind slides down an incline of existential dread as we kiss, warring with my body. God, she tastes incredible, and she smells like the clementine body wash I know she uses because I’ve lathered her in it every day this week. Her lips open for me, and she accepts my tongue as her fingers pinch at the lapels of my suit jacket, hinting at what she wants.

“Later,” I murmur into her mouth, earning a displeased sound from her. “Get rid of the witch.”

“I just made a pot of coffee; I’ll make it really strong, and she’ll probably leave of her own volition. Or maybe I’ll just tell her you’re poor,” she says, wiping my bottom lip with her thumb.

My dick throbs, desperate to be inside of her already.

“She’s made it very clear that she only came here for money, and word on the street is, your wife had a hefty price tag.”

I pause. “Who told you that?”

“A … friend?”

My jaw clenches. “Better not be a friend whose name starts with the letterE.”

Playful deviance lights up her eyes, and she lifts a shoulder to her chin. “Guess you’ll have to come to the awards banquet with me and find out.”

Chuckling as she practically dances out of the foyer, I meet my mother’s gaze. The air immediately changes, electricity shifting into some sort of disdainful, untethered energy. The same kind that has existed between my mother and me since I was a child, watching her sit back and enjoy life while everyone around her was miserable.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice tired.

“Well, you wouldn’t bring her to me, so I felt I needed to meet the new Mrs. Primrose.” She takes a sip of her drink, wiggling her brows. “She’s beautiful—that much is certain—but are you sure marriage is such a good idea?”

“We’re already married, Mother.”

“I know that, but this is the twenty-first century, Cassius, and you weren’t raised Catholic. Divorce is an option.”

The comment grates against my skin like sandpaper, reminding me that, technically speaking, Ariana and I are still operating on an expiring schedule, though we never set a permanent date. It’s always been sort of rolling with the punches, waiting for one of us to buck up and add a bit of permanence to our situation.

Maybe that’s why neither of us has—because we don’twantto order an expiration.

At least, I don’t.

Not anymore.

“Darling, I don’t want to fight. I just came to see if you’d changed your mind,” she says after a moment, setting her teacup on the coffee table in front of her. “I gave you your space, my darling boy, but it’s time to respect the contract you signed and the deal you made.”

“What about the dealyoumade, Mother? The one that said, when you push three kids into this world, you’re supposed to provide for them?”

Her eyes narrow. “You never once wanted for athing, Cassius. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Moving closer, I lower my voice, not wanting Ariana to overhear as my patience dries up, completely spent. My hand lifts, index finger pointing out in accusation.

“I wanted a mother. A father, too, sometimes. I wanted parents who gave a shit if I was around, or if I was happy, or—I don’t know—when their daughter was sexually assaulted.”

Her nostrils flare, but I’m not done.

“Not wanting for material possessions doesn’t mean shit, Mother, except that it taught me what was important in life, so I spent most of mine wanting only one thing: money. And then when Dad died, I decided money wasn’t enough, and I wanted the power he had given up too.”

She blinks at me, eyes wide.

My stomach churns violently, but I press on. “Maybe I didn’t want for anything important. And whenever I did, I made it a point to go out andgetit because I knew I didn’t want to end up like you, begging people for scraps. I stopped waiting around for things to come to me, and I took them instead. So, no, Mother, I won’t be divorcing Ariana because I paid for exactly what I wanted, and I won’t be giving you a goddamn cent, because you’re a manipulative shrew who doesn’t deserve it.”

Getting to her feet, she clutches the lapels of the fur coat she has on, keeping them closed at her throat. Her heels click loudly on the floor, echoing against the ceiling, as she makes her way over to me with a strange look on her face.

“Fine,” she says, anger making her seem decades older than her years, “but you will regret this decision. And you’ll regret keeping that little floozy at your bedside when she’s liable to get you killed. The men in her world won’t leave her be, Cassius. They won’t settle just because she’s changed her name and extracted herself from her father’s business. It won’t stop.”

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