Page 28 of Twisted Love

“And you’ve got a lot of attitude for someone who’s about to lose,” I fire back, handing him the Banker’s tray.

His lips twitch as if he’s holding back a smile. “We’ll see.”

As we start to set up the game, I can’t help but steal glances at him. He’s not like no one I know. There’s a weight to him, a gravity that makes him seem older, more serious. I roll first, landing on a property. “Hah, Park Lane,” I declare proudly, placing my token on the space. “Of course, I’m buying. One hotel, please.”

“Spending all your money already?” he drawls, handing me the deed. “Bold move.”

“Bold is my middle name,” I reply, grinning as I hand over the cash.

He shakes his head, rolling the dice and landing on Chance. He picks up the card and he reads it aloud. “Advance to Go. Collect $200.” For the first time, I see him smile. It’s small, fleeting, but it lights up his whole face. My heart flutters in my chest, and I have to remind myself to breathe. This is why I came here. To see this side of him. To make him laugh, even if just a little.

“Lucky,” I mutter, but I’m secretly thrilled that he’s started to enjoy the game.

Slowly, the tension between us vanishes. I crack jokes whenever he lands on my properties, charging him exorbitant rent with exaggerated glee. He groans every time but pays up without complaint, his lips quirking in amusement despite himself.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he says at one point, after narrowly avoiding my three hotels on Boardwalk.

By the time the game is nearing its end, I’ve built an empire of properties, and he’s barely hanging on.

“Game over,” I announce triumphantly, counting my stack of cash with a dramatic flourish. “You’ve been thoroughly defeated.”

He leans back, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. “I thought your intention with this was to make me feel better. I can assure you that right now I do not feel better.”

“Womp womp,” I mock, grinning as I hold up the wad of fake cash. “I do, however, have compassion, and I’m such a generous winner, so I’ll let you have this as a consolation prize.”

“You’re giving me fake money?” he asks, his tone dry.

“It’s the thought that counts,” I reply, laughing happily …

“Mrs. Jackson. We’re here.”

At the sudden announcement, I jerk back to the present and realize that we’ve arrived at my parents' house. I lean back against the seat for a moment, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag as the memory fades. It feels like a lifetime ago.

Only the memory of those wads of cash flying through the air is still sharp enough to cut. The contrast between the young man I knew and the man he’s become is almost too much to bear. My heart twists painfully and I will the tears brimming in my eyes to stay put. There’s no time for this sentimentality—not now. Now I have to stop thinking of myself and save my father.

I draw in a deep breath, straighten my posture and wipe away the single tear that managed to escape. My face smooths into something bright, something cheerful, though it feels like I’m wearing a mask made of fragile glass. My parents can’t see me breaking—they need to believe I’m happy, that this marriage, strange as it is, hasn’t broken me.

“Mrs. Jackson?” the driver calls again.

“Yes,” I nod, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

With steady hands, I push the car door open and step out, letting the cool air wash over me. The sight of my parents’ home brings a fleeting sense of comfort. I helped them buy this house with my wages. I clutch onto the feeling with everything I have. All that matters is that I make them happy and show them I’m okay—even if I’m not.

Inside, the smell of something delicious wafts through the air—a comforting mix of meat, onions, and herbs. My mom is in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, humming as she stirs a pot on the stove. Her face lights up when she sees me.

“There’s my girl!” she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel and pulling me into a hug. Her embrace is warm and smells faintly of the lavender talcum powder she always uses. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Mom,” I say, squeezing her tightly. “What’s cooking? Smells amazing.”

“Just meatloaf, soup, and your favorite cookies,” she replies, her eyes twinkling. “Thought you could use a good home-cooked meal.”

I laugh softly, following her into the kitchen and setting my bag on the counter. “Thank you, I do.”

“Now, tell me everything. How’s the house? And how does it feel to have staff serving you?”

I smile and am about to lie through my teeth when the sound of my father shifting in his recliner catches my attention.

“Hang on a sec, Mom,” I say softly and make my way over to him. He’s in his usual spot, his chair tilted back for a nap, but his face looks pale, drawn, even as he sits up at my approach and smiles warmly.

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