Page 197 of My Dark Prince
“Cameron?” She arched an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Cameron Cooper is dead, honey.”
My heart tumbled all the way down to my feet. Tore a hole straight through the earth and almost dragged me down with it. I struggled to regain my breath.
“Has been for about, oh, let’s see, five years, I suppose?” Philomena checked her nails, chuckling to herself. “How time flies. I remember his sister called me when we were still in Argentina to tell me. Took his own life. Horrifying, actually.”
A whimper slipped past my lips. The only flash of vulnerability I’d given her today, and I hated myself for it. A self-satisfied beam plastered on her face. This was payback. For rejecting her. For not wanting her to be a part of my life. Of my wedding.
And it worked.
“You know …” She pouted. “He never truly got over the fact that you two didn’t have a relationship. He tried looking for you. Sending letters. Calling. I blocked him every single time. Got rid of the letters. Changed numbers so he couldn’t find us. The party at the chateau was the last straw. I put you in boarding school, where he couldn’t find you. And it worked.”
My entire body shook. I clenched the edge of the counter. If I let go, I’d lunge across the table and hurt her. My self-control dwindled by the second.
I could’ve had a father.
I could’ve had a father.
I could’ve felt unconditional love. I could’ve had a father who asked me how my day was, who walked me down the aisle, who taught me how to break generational curses before I started my own.
She robbed me of that.
I stood up, only for my knees to buckle. The backpack tumbled toward the tiles. A hand shot out to catch it, followed by another looping around my waist.
Oliver.
Only he could blanket me with peace in a moment like this. I let him hold me up, lost for words for the first time. After all, no words could possibly describe the misery she’d inflected on me.
Oliver’s eyes sharpened into two pointy daggers, drilling holes into my mother and pinning her into place. “You’re done.”
She tried and failed to close her gaping mouth. “But—”
“And I don’t mean with this conversation. I mean with life. This is the last time you will ever speak to my wife. I will eviscerate whatever scraps of a life you’ve managed to salvage. Being poor will be the least of your problems.”
“You don’t even know what I said,” she protested.
“And I don’t fucking care. The second you made the woman I love cry was the second you signed your death warrant. Hope you’re a fan of orange, Philomena, because it’s about to be the only color you’ll wear for the rest of your miserable life.”
Philomena’s eyes stared back at him like two giant saucers.
“Oh.” He hiked the backpack stuffed with money over his shoulder. “And you don’t deserve this.”
That sprang her into action. “Hey. You can’t take that back.”
“I can, and I am. No contract, no fucking money. Hound me with lawyers, baby. Let’s see who wins.”
He collected my hand with more gentleness than needed, as if it were something precious, holding it in his sweater pocket like he wanted to tuck me inside with it and shield me from the world.
“Don’t worry, Philomena, I’ll be sure to send you a video of me burning all that cash in a bonfire, just to throw some salt into the open wound. Have a shitty life.”
She chased us to the exit, latching onto the JanSport by its flimsy straps. “That’s illegal.”
“So are fraud, theft, and Ponzi schemes. I’m sure the authorities would love to see all the evidence I’ve gathered.” Ollie jerked the backpack away from her frail fingers as the waitress chased us down with the bill. “Better cash in that AARP discount, Philomena. You’re gonna need it.”
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Briar
You can hide Trio in your JanSport and Geezer under your oversized Baylor sweatshirt.
