Page 85 of I'm sorry, Princess
The exhaustion weighs on me as I speak, and I can’t muster the energy to defend myself further. I know I shouldn’t let her talk to me like this, but honestly, I’m so damn tired of everything.
Blakely narrows her eyes, leaning forward in her chair with a predatory smirk.
“Let me get this straight, Serena,” she begins, her voice cutting like glass. “You only have this job because of your father. I don’t care if you have to shove your boobs in front of some old fucker to get him to talk, just fucking do it. That’s how you rich girls are, isn’t it? Privileged and useless.”
She leans back in her chair, her tone dripping with disdain. “I want to see results by the end of next week. Now get the fuck out of my office.”
Her words hit me like a slap, each one sinking deeper than the last. I know she hates me, but hearing it so plainly... it stings more than I care to admit.
I don’t bother responding. It’s pointless. Nothing I say will make a difference to her, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I leave her office, my head down, and before I even realize it, my vision blurs with tears. The halls feel too bright, too quiet, as I make my way out of the building.
When I get home, my mother is already there, sitting on the couch with a magazine in hand. She doesn’t seem to notice the tears still clinging to my lashes.
They, she and my father, had a long, drawn-out argument about me moving out. They didn’t understand why I wanted my own space, and they fought me on it for weeks. But eventually, I won.
I couldn’t stand another day in that house, where every conversation revolved around two things: when I would marry and who they thought was “suitable” for me.
I glance at her as she looks up from her magazine. Her perfectly styled hair and flawless makeup make her look like she just stepped out of a photoshoot.
“Serena, darling,” she says, her tone warm but curious. “You look tired. Did something happen at work?”
“Bad day at work,” I mutter, dropping my bag onto the table and moving toward the kitchen to make myself a tea. My movements are robotic, every step weighed down by Blakely’s words still echoing in my head. “Apparently, I’m useless.”
I busy myself with the kettle, hoping my mom will let it slide. But, of course, she doesn’t.
“I’ve been thinking, Mom,” I continue, keeping my tone steady. “I want to quit and focus on writing. I’ve started something, and it’s really good. If you’d just take a look at it, you’d see—”
The sharp sound of her hand slamming against the table stops me mid-sentence. I freeze, turning to her in shock.
“What the hell?” I whisper under my breath.
“We’ve talked about this, Serena!” she shouts, her voice cutting through the silence of the apartment. “You are going to work as a psychologist! You’re never happy with anything. Your father and I have tried so hard to set you up for success, and this is how you repay us? By acting like a spoiled brat?”
Her words hit like a punch to the gut, each one sinking deeper than the last. I can feel my body trembling, my frustration boiling over.
“I don’t need your permission to do what I want!” I shout back, my voice shaking with fury. “You can’t control my life! If I want to be a writer, I’ll be a writer. If I want to be a freaking hooker, I’ll be a freaking hooker, and you’ll have no say in it! I’m not a child!”
The sound of her hand meeting my cheek is deafening.
I blink.
The world stills as the stinging heat radiates across my skin. I lift a trembling hand to my cheek, my fingers brushing over the spot where her palm connected.
It’s warm.
My mother slapped me.
Tears well in my eyes, the first one escaping down my cheek before I can stop it. I stare at her, speechless, my throat tight and raw.
‘“You’ll do exactly what I say,” she spits, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “I’m so fucking tired of you. You’re 24. At your age, I was already married to your father, and we had you. But no, you don’t want a family, you don’t want a future, you want to whore around and waste your life being a useless writer.”
I can’t breathe. Her words hit me like a freight train, each one knocking the air out of my lungs.
“I’m curious,” she continues, her voice sharp and venomous, “how are you going to pay your bills? What’s theplan, Serena? Taking a second job as a hooker? Paying rent with money from sucking dick?”
I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white as I try to steady myself. I feel like I’m going to collapse, like the ground beneath me is crumbling away.
