Page 91 of Summoned
All throughthe next day, a single thought plays on a loop in my mind: I survived the second trial. Everything’s fine.
But it doesn’t feel that way. No matter how often I tell myself it was just an illusion—my friends never said those things, and my father would never humiliate me like that—my mind refuses to accept it as simple fiction.
Every time the memory resurfaces, something dark awakens inside me. It spreads like decay, leaving me stained. That’s what the illusion left behind—not just shame, but dirt. And maybe some pride that I coped with it.
Restless, I head into my en-suite bathroom. When I pass by the mirror, my feet become rooted to the floor. For a long moment, I stare at my reflection, unable to believe my eyes.
Beneath the half-fallen silver crystals, there are no red lines. I wipe my forehead with my hand. The last of the gems drops into the sink. No letter underneath.
I splash my face with icy water while certain scenes replay in my mind.
Whatthe hellhappened?
The gathering was an illusion, but what happened with Gaetano afterward was all too real. Just the memory of him kneeling there sends a tremor through me. I could relive that moment endlessly, overthinking and overheating…
Instead, I focus on the current problem.
I don’t want to go to dinner with the Deliberovs.
The thought of facing my father—just like I did yesterday during the trial—chills me to the bone.You can tell him. He’s your father, he’ll understand. It won’t be like the illusion. I’ve been repeating that since this morning. Still, my heart is heavy.
I don’t leave my room until early afternoon. Maybe my father has changed his mind about tonight. Or maybe Daniel crashed his car and died. Okay, maybe he just found someone more suitable, I tell myself, and keep inventing scenarios to escape the dinner.
At some point, my growling stomach forces me to go to the living room. I tiptoe down the stairs, and find out I’m not alone. Damn it. She’s the last person I want to run into when I’m not feeling my best.
My mother is resting her chin on her hand. Perched at the center of the bar counter, legs crossed on a high stool, she’s wearing one of her branded tracksuits. Her bleached hair falls over her shoulders in youthful waves, bulked up with extensions. Her made-up face is lit by the glow of her phone.
A glass of white wine and an open bottle sit in front of her. I check the wall clock. Even for her, it’s early to be drinking.
She doesn’t say a word when I stroll past her. I take her indifference withgreaterindifference and peek into the fridge. My stomach growls at the sight of three slices of chocolate cake on the top shelf. I plate one and grab a fork.
On my way back to the stairs, something about her stillness rubs me the wrong way. The usual restless scrolling has stopped; the phone hangs motionless in her hand, her attention fixed somewhere distant.
My feet stop of their own accord. “Mom?”
A few seconds drag by before she shifts, sparing me a glance. Her stare, the same deep caramel shade as mine,seems to pass right through me, blank and unfocused.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. Again, I count the seconds.
Her gaze clears. She swirls her wine glass and sighs, attention back on her phone. “I didn’t call the technicians in time. The garden alarm system was off all night.”
“Someone broke into our home?”
My mother presses her lips together. “No, thank God. I just didn’t schedule the maintenance with enough advance, and last night, the alarm didn’t activate in the garden.”
“So nothing happened?”
My mother exhales in frustration. “The system was in ‘emergency mode,’ Nicole. The cameras didn’t record anything all night, and the motion sensors were down.”
I shrug. “At most, we missed the neighbor’s cat pissing on the roses.”
My mother runs her hand through her hair. “Nicole, this isn’t funny. We need to be responsible. What if someonehadgotten in? Your father would’ve been furious.”
Of course. It’s abouthim. Who else?
Whatever shred of concern I had for her a moment ago vanishes, replaced by raw irritation.My father. My father. My father. It’s always about howhefeels. What upsetshim.My mother lives in his shadow, feeds on scraps of his attention, and bows to his expectations. Her eyes light up at his approval. Her tail tucks at every criticism.
I tilt my head and study her. The wrinkles she smooths out with Botox are more pronounced today. Despite her polished hairstyle, her face looks tired.
