Page 69 of Fractured Loyalties
A soft exhale. “No. I came to talk to you. About your future.”
Here it is.I let out a heavy sigh. “You can say it, you know. You can say ‘him.’ I’m not going to freak out. Or I might, but it’ll be after the conversation.”
She laughs softly. “Oh, Ivy, it’s not about Roman.”
“Everything is about Roman,” I counter, quirking a brow. “It always has been.”
She stares out the windshield for a few beats and then turns to me. “Do you ever wish things were different?”
I think about it. “Sometimes I wish I were normal. But then I think about what normal girls put up with, and I don’t envy them. This is better.Heis better.”
She shakes her head at me and then pulls the car away from the curb. I relax in the seat, letting the straps of tension fall off my shoulders.
“Why did you really want to talk to me, Mom?”
She eyes me, and then looks back at the road. “There’s something at the house I want to show you. It’s important.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “That’s…ominous.”
She laughs. “You have no idea.”
We drive in a weird peace, the radio off, the engine purring, and the highway rolling out in a straight line ahead of us. She doesn’t ask about school or friends. She just drives, and I’m grateful.
I think we’re more alike than I give her credit for.
When the estate gates swing open, I brace for impact. I almost expect to see the same mausoleum I left two years ago, the same haunted corridors and dark facade.
But that’s not home anymore. Now, the gardens are redrawn, green and florid and buzzing with bees. There are fresh stones on the walkway, mossy and imperfect, as if someone ripped up the old path just to prove a point.
And I think that’s precisely why Roman did it.
We park in front. I get out and squint in the sunlight. Roman is waiting by the fountain, his hands in his pockets, his chin lowered. He looks as if he’s been carved out of bone, despite the six months of therapy he’d never admit to attending to anyone but me.
Irena gestures to the path. “Go with him,” she says. “I’ll catch up later.” She has a weird look on her face, as if she wants to hug me, but I ignore it and climb out.
I approach Roman. He doesn’t move until I’m a foot away, then he reaches out and takes my hand. His palm is cold, but the grip is steady.
“Nice jacket,” I hum, because it’s black and perfectly tailored. “You look like the world’s sexiest funeral director.”
He chuckles. “And you look like a librarian who runs fight clubs on the side.”
“Accurate,” I say, giggling.
He tugs me toward the gardens. The path winds through lilac and old roses and something with spikes I don’t recognize. At the far end, there’s a cluster of chairs and a low table set with black candles, a bottle of whiskey, and two crystal glasses.
“What is this?” I ask, instantly suspicious.
He steers me into a chair and sits across from me, eyes on mine. “You know I’m not good at this stuff.”
I want to make a joke, but there’s a heat building in my chest, a pressure that pushes the words back down.
“I’ve been thinking about the first time I saw you,” he says, voice low. “You were angry and sad. And dressed like you were homeless. But you were still the most magnificent woman I’d ever seen.”
My throat tightens.
He reaches into his pocket, and for a second, I think he’s going to light a cigarette or maybe just shank me and be done with it. But nope, he pulls out a tiny black velvet box with no brand. He opens it and sets it on the table between us.
Inside is a ring, a blood-red stone in its middle and black diamonds radiating out like an eclipse.
