Page 52 of Shattered Souls
That’s partly why I never told anyone about the phone call I got last week from the owner of the Timberwolves. The excitement I thought I’d feel at getting that call wasn’t there. The only reason I even brought it up tonight was to shove it in Bertram’s face. I grimace, knowing Riley is going to bepissed. She should have been the first person I told—not that asswipe who doesn’t even matter.
My head falls back against the wall, and pushing aside my own problems, I listen in on the whooping Riley is hopefully giving her mom…
15
RILEY
Aheadache pounds behind my eyes as I step back into a dining room that I hope to never set foot in again after tonight.
Hearing me, my mother looks up from where she’s sipping on her glass of white wine. A look of disdain crosses her face. “You’re still here.”
“I believe we have some things to discuss.”
Flicking her gaze toward a door that I’m assuming Bertram disappeared through since he didn’t re-enter the foyer when he stormed off, she says, “Now hardly seems like the time.”
“Now seems like exactly the time,” I immediately counter. “Where is my daughter?”
I doubt Bertram is listening in on our conversation, but I keep my voice low, nonetheless. My mother casts another glance toward the door, appearing equally intent that Bertram doesn’t hear what we are discussing.
Lydia places her glass on the table with an exorbitantly long sigh, followed by an excessive gulp of her wine. Still staring at her nails, she says, “I’ve sent Aurora away to a boarding school.”
What. The Actual. Fuck?
Certain I must have heard her wrong, I repeat, “You sent her to boarding school?”
My mother’s attitude is gratingly nonchalant as she shrugs a shoulder. “It was the best thing for her. I wish I had been able to do the same with you.”
Of course she does, but that is neither here nor there.
“What boarding school?” I demand, beyond confused. This is not what I expected her to say, and it’s thrown me for a loop. Is it possible she changed her mind at the last second, and instead of selling her, she sent my daughter to boarding school? I mean, we don’t have any proof sheactuallysold her. Just that she refused to sell her toRuthless. But why would she change her mind? Why would she go to all that effort to find Ruthless if she was going to back out at the last second? Maybe she got scared…
As far-fetched as it seems, hope flickers in my chest.
She waves a dismissive hand. “I forget the name. One of those expensive European ones. France? Switzerland? It had a fancy name I can’t pronounce.”
“Why would you do that? Why would you send her away?”
She scoffs like I’m some sort of idiot. “My husband was being released from prison.” Her hand lifts to rest over her heart, and she looks at me, appalled. “We needed time to ourselves without some sticky-fingered kid getting in the way.”
“So give her to me,” I argue. “You don’t send her away without consulting me.”
Again, she waves away my protests, and I swear, if she does it one more time, I’m going to snap the bones in her wrist.
Folding my arms over my chest, I tap my foot. “You know what I think? I think you found out your husband was getting out of prison, and you knew if he found out you were raising his kid, who he knew nothing about, he’d take the child and leave you. After all, it’s never beenyouhe wanted, has it?”
“You spiteful child,” my mother hisses.
“My daughter is not in some European fucking boarding school, is she?” Hoping that she is, is futile. My mother is too selfish. Even if she got cold feet, she wouldn’t pass up the money. Or risk losing her husband. Vibrating with rage as I advance on her, where she lounges in her chair like she’s in-fucking-vincible. Standing over her, I practically spit in her face. “Tell me where the fuck she is!”
Malice glints in her hazel eyes, which are so similar to mine and yet nothing alike, as she gracefully rises to her feet. Leaning in, the overwhelming floral scent of her perfume threatens to choke me as she brings her poisonous lips to my ear. “You’ll never find her.”
She’s already halfway across the room before her words truly penetrate, and I whirl, yelling, “You bitch!”
Stopping, she slowly turns in her heels to face me, a victorious grin stretching her red lips. “Maybe it will teach you not to take what isn’t yours.”
“I didnottake your husband,” I practically snarl. “You’re sick, twisted, vile husbandrapedme. He impregnated me.”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t flaunted yourself in front of him, he wouldn’t have.” I flinch at the verbal slap, my mouth dropping open in a silent O. “Flouncing around in your bikini and short skirts.” My mother’s face has contorted into one of pure hatred. “You wanted it, so stop lying to yourself.” I don’t notice the tear burning a track down my cheek until she sneers at the display of emotion. “And stop playing the sympathy card. It’s pathetic.” She runs her eyes over me, disgust curling the corners of her lips. You’d think I’d strutted in here in heels and sexy lingerie instead of a long-sleeved, high-necked top, jeans, and sneakers. “For trying to steal my husband, you can live the rest of your life knowing your daughter is chained in some basement and being passed around for the amusement of men who get off on making her scream in agony.”
