Page 62 of With a Cherry On Top

“I had another daughter before Charlotte.”

That gets my attention, and my fingers tighten around the glass.

“I lost her.”

There’s no hesitation, no trembling in her voice, no moment of silence to prepare for the weight of it. Just a flat, matter-of-fact statement, like she’s talking about losing a set of keys and not a living, breathing child.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.

She doesn’t acknowledge me, just looks away. “But she was...easier. A hard worker, that’s for sure. Ambitious, focused. She knew what she wanted and went for it. Didn’t let anything distract her.”

Maybe that’s where this controlling behavior comes from. Maybe after losing her first daughter, Beatrice became so afraid of losing another that she wrapped Charlotte in an iron grip, trying to mold her into something she could control.

“I thought Charlotte would be my do-over, you know?” Her lips twitch. “But she’s nothing like her.Nothing.”

Anger flickers in my chest, sharp and instinctual. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was disgusted. But it can’t be that, can it? She’s a mother, for Christ’s sake. A mother who has already lost a child. That kind of pain is not something I can even begin to imagine.

“She was the perfect mix of me and my first husband.” A faraway look settles in her eyes. “She took the best from both of us. His stubbornness, his talent. My strength and beauty. She looked just like me.” Her voice wavers slightly, and I realize that her eyes are moist.

For the first time, I see something raw in her.

Grief.

And yet, I can’t ignore the bitter aftertaste of her words. She’s punishing Charlotte for not being the daughter she lost. For not being like her mother.

But Charlotte is her own person, and a pretty incredible one at that. She might not be the carbon copy Beatrice wanted, but she’s still her daughter.

I swallow, then ask the question that’s buzzing underneath my skin. “What about Charlotte?”

Beatrice sniffs. She tilts her glass back and downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. “She’s just like her father—my second husband. A lazy but gorgeous man who wanted nothing to do with her.” She sets the glass down with a quiet clink and stands. “So here I am. Raisinghisdaughter.”

“Yourdaughter,” I say before I can control myself.

She looks at me, and every single emotion I’ve seen play out on her face is replaced by cool indifference. “Yes. My daughter. My beautiful but lazy daughter, who disappoints me at the same rate her father did.”

I force myself to stay still, to not react. If I open my mouth again, I won’t be able to control what comes out.

“I’ve given up everything for her. For ten years, we haven’t had a home. Just moved from hotels to apartments. City to city. Country to country. All to give her the chance I never had.” She turns to the corridor, a sneer on her lips. “And how does she repay me?”

“You’ve had to sacrifice a lot,” I agree. She nods, clearly pleased with my approval. “Both of you,” I add then.

With her little spark dimmed, she looks away.

“Are you sure that’s still what she wants? Charlotte?” I ask before taking another sip. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to engage—that I should act like a wall she bounces her thoughts against, but I can’t let this opportunity slip.

“Why wouldn’t it be? She’s living every woman’s dream.”

Dreams don’t usually come with cages.

Beatrice rises from her seat and starts gathering her stack of papers. “I’ll make sure to clear with your boss the extra payment for the weekend meals.”

“That’s not nece?—”

“I won’t be here for dinner, so you don’t need to cook for me.”

She turns, her heels clicking against the polished floor, her back rigid. There likely won’t be another moment like this—where she’s got her guard down, where she’s somewhat vulnerable.

I need to say something.

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