Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
My mother’s laugh starts off sounding completely amused but then ends in a wheezing cackle. “Oh, darling. No, you’re not. That’s adorable.”
Francesca doesn’t blink. “You should come to the next race. I’ll wave from the podium.”
Vivienne narrows her eyes. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“She’s got more than that,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Francesca glances at me—and to my surprise, shoots me a wink. It’s courageously defiant. And strangely grounding.
Vivienne leans back on the chaise with a sigh, swirling the clear liquid in her glass. “Well, she’s a change from your usual,” she muses, casting a slow, pointed glance at Francesca. “You always did have a weakness for the ones who strut around half-dressed and hollow, all pouty lips and platform heels, like thinking too hard might wrinkle their spray tan.”
I say nothing, staring at her because any attempt to defuse her will only make it worse.
Mum sips, eyes glittering. “Don’t look at me like that, darling. I read the headlines. Or at least, I skim them waiting for my pills to kick in. You’ve got a type—glamorous, empty-headed, disposable. I assume this one’s just more ambitious.”
Francesca cocks her head, studying my mother with fascination, but she doesn’t rise to the barbs.
Vivienne lazily looks back to me. “Does she know what she’s in for? The Barnes curse? We ruin everything we touch, you know.” Then she turns to Francesca, eyes narrowing with surprising precision given her obvious inebriation. “Though maybe you’re not worried. Girls like you usually have an endgame.”
Her tone sharpens, eyes gleaming. “Just remember, darling—he may let you in for now, but he’ll freeze you out before you realize you forgot to pack a coat.”
Francesca tucks her hands in her pockets, her relaxed posture quite impressive given the tension swirling through the air. She seems completely unfazed by my mother.
“I didn’t come here to judge,” she says to Vivienne. “But maybe you could pretend, just for ten minutes, to not enjoy humiliating your son in front of someone who actually gives a damn.”
Vivienne blinks. Once. Twice.
I blink. Once. Twice.
But Vivienne recovers, waving us both off like a bad dream. “Oh, you’re just like him. Righteous. Cold. Self-important.”
I take a slow step forward—not to argue, not to plead. To draw my line in the sand.
“You can take your shots at me,” I say, low and even. “But you don’t speak to her like that.”
Vivienne arches a brow. “Touched a nerve, have I?”
“No,” I reply. “Simply setting a boundary you’d be wise to respect.”
She studies me over the rim of her glass, then hums thoughtfully. “How noble. That’s new too.”
I stare at her, waiting for her to acknowledge she understands that mistreating my company is off-limits. Her face tilts toward mine, mock innocent. “I was just being welcoming, darling.”
“You don’t know how.”
She pouts. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
She scoffs, then swings her legs over the edge of the chaise to rise. She rakes her fingers through her tangled platinum hair. “You’ve always been ungrateful, Ronan. You think I wanted this life? All those boring charity events, pretending I gave a damn about your father’s empire, pretending to be some doting wife? And you—off playing boy racer while I wasted away in a London mausoleum.”
“This isn’t about me,” I snap.
“Oh, isn’t it always?” she says, then turns to Francesca, eyes narrowing with a cruel glee. “And you, sweetheart. How long do you think that little spotlight of yours will last? Another few races before someone younger, prettier, more obedient comes along?”
Francesca straightens, arms still at her sides, calm but firm. “You don’t intimidate me.”
Vivienne grins. “Oh, I’m sure you think you’re so clever. But believe me, darling—men like my son? They’ll take what they want from you and leave you to rot the second it gets complicated. Isn’t that right, Ronan? Like father, like son?”
Francesca’s features tighten. She doesn’t respond, but there is a shift in her posture, like she’s bracing for more.
And that’s when I step between them.
My voice is cold. Final. “Perhaps you should go to bed. I can have the staff bring your evening meal up to you.”
Vivienne blinks, her eyes clearing a bit as if she was in a daze. As is her habit after she expends energy on her spitefulness, she turns docile. “Yes… I am quite tired. You should show your friend the gardens. They’re lovely at sunset.”
Francesca cocks an eyebrow at the abrupt change in personality. It’s par for the course, and I’ve learned to never drop my guard.
Not for a second.
Vivienne moves to me, and I stiffen as she cups my cheek with her clammy hand. I pretend I see some piece of a real mother inside the move, but there’s nothing there. “Good night, darling. Make sure to lock up.”
She turns away, ignoring Francesca as she shuffles out, glass in hand, muttering to herself.