Page 3 of Unhinged Love

This is a complete joke, but the worst part is how deliriously happy Dad looks. He’s making a fool out of himself. He’s a fucking cliché. The guy who is too blinded by pussy and a big pair of tits to see what’s happening in front of him.

This woman does not love him. She’s using him, not just for money but for status. She’s gone from living in a rental duplex to moving herself and the bug-eyed little freak across from me into a big, comfortable house with enormous rooms, a pool in the back, and anything anyone could want.

I’m supposed to sit here and play nice? We’re supposed to pretend to be one big, happy family? It’s almost enough to make me choke on my food. I don’t want any part of this.

It feels like forever before we’re all scraping our plates. Thank fuck. I can’t wait to get away from this table. The air in here is so thick I can barely breathe. There’s too much going on under the surface. The way Irene keeps staring at Elliana, who won’t look up from her plate. The way Dad keeps joking around, trying to keep the mood light.

I almost want to tell him he’s part of the reason everything is so tense. He’s trying too hard. It’s too obvious. He’s only making it worse.

At least it’s over. When I push my chair back from the table, ready to take my plate into the kitchen, I’m hit with a rude awakening.

“Where are you going?” Dad asks, narrowing the dark blue eyes that are so much like mine. “We haven’t had dessert yet.”

Fucking hell. “Since when do we have dessert together right after dinner?” I ask.

“Since we now have Irene and Elliana with us, and it’s important to eat together as a family.”

Isn’t it nice that he cares so much about this family shit now? Not that he’s ever been a bad father or anything, but we’ve never really been the dessert right after dinner kind of people. Most of the time, we never even have it. It’s like everything has to have this big, hollow ceremony around it now. Who has time for that?

“Here, let me take that for you.” Irene smiles down at Elliana, who only sits back in her chair to give her mom room to take her half-empty plate. She never did eat the rest of that lasagna.

“Eyes bigger than your stomach?” Dad asks with a chuckle. Fuck, he is so oblivious. I almost want to laugh.

Elliana murmurs something I can’t hear, staring down at the table while Dad and Irene giggle their way into the kitchen like a couple of lovesick teenagers. They’ll probably make out in there. It’s almost enough to make me wish I hadn’t eaten so much since it wants to come right back up again.

Now we’re alone. The two of us.

Lucky me.

I fold my arms, staring at her, daring her to look my way.

Who does she think she is? Sitting there with that tight jaw like she’s pissed off at the world? She hit the fucking jackpot—big house, respected stepfather, all the money she has probably ever wished she could get her greedy little hands on. And still, she sits there with a fucking chip on her shoulder like it’s her life that’s been turned upside down by this sham.

That’s exactly what it is. One big sham.

“You don’t get to be a gold digger and be rude at the same time.”

She doesn’t react to my muttered comment. It’s like I never said a word. All her reaction does is up my need to get to her.

“What, your mom was so busy looking for a rich guy to support her that she didn’t bother teaching you manners?” Except for the tiny shudder that moves through her, she still doesn’t react.

But that got her, at least a little. I know it did. “I’m fucking talking to you.” Grabbing a dinner roll from the basket between us, I hurl it straight at her head and watch it bounce off before hitting the floor.

That got her.

Her head snaps up, and I am almost salivating over the tears I know I’m going to see behind those ugly glasses.

Only there are no tears. There is nothing but cold, hard hatred, only magnified by her lenses. I’m so surprised I almost swallow my tongue.

Where does she get off looking pissed? Who does she think she is? I would ask, but Dad and Irene come back too soon. They both hold two small plates, each with a slice of cake. I’m surprised Irene will even let Elliana have one, but it’s pretty thin.

“A night like this calls for a little celebration,” Dad announces, turning my stomach. “And just think—in only a few weeks, we’ll be cutting into a much bigger cake in front of all our family and friends.”

I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. The poor bastard. He’s even looking forward to his public humiliation.

It’s not his humiliation I care about right now. It’s the humiliation of the cold little bitch across from me, who has gone back to staring down at her plate, barely picking at her cake. She has everything she could ever want, but she can’t be bothered to be grateful.

It looks like she needs a lesson in gratitude. Not to mention instruction in good manners.

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