Mia.
There it is, and very pointed, too.
“They’re my grandparents—” I start, but Tess isn’t in the mood today.
She moves across the kitchen to stand right in front of me, an imposing figure in her designer heels and skirt suit. I’m proud of myself for meeting her eyes and standing my ground, as if the heat of her fury isn’t searing my skin.
“They are not your grandparents. Your grandparents—my parents—are dead. The Banks are just … people. Strangers. Maybe they didn’t kidnap you with their own hands, but they aided and abetted that maniac; they knew the truth years ago, and yet they kept you from me. So I’m sorry, Mia, if I don’t feel any sympathy toward them.”
“Don’t call me Mia,” I choke out, but the words are caught behind a wave of emotion. They feel weak, and I don’t want to be weak. “And don’t call Saffron a maniac, she’s … sad. Her baby died—”
“Yes,” Tess says, her voice sharp as a knife as she stares down at me. Now I see how she’s become such a powerhouse in the publishing world; she’s fucking terrifying. Even if her manuscript sucked—they never do, her books are always painfully well-written—anyone publisher in their right mind would drop to their knees and beg for forgiveness if she looked at them this way. “Her baby died. Dakota Banks died of SIDS. And that’s very sad, but my baby didn’t die. My baby is standing right here.”
“I am not your baby,” I breathe, but I can’t deny it. Three DNA tests and one quick look in the mirror is all it took to confirm that beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Not just your baby,” I amend, because I feel cornered. I feel fucking trapped.
“Mom,” Parrish starts, but Tess lifts up a finger to silence him, staring down at me with her raven-black eyes.
“Not just my baby?” she clarifies, her voice cooling from red hot to ice cold. Shit, shit, shit. I feel instantly like I’ve made a mistake, but where can I go with this now? Besides, I have a point. If Tess feels her biology allows her instant and permanent access to me—as well as absolute control—then what about my dad? Don’t I at least deserve to know his fucking name?
“I have a father out there somewhere, a man that you refuse to talk about.” I keep my eyes on hers, even as my blood pounds in my skull and I feel my heartbeat thundering a million miles an hour. “You say he was a random one-night stand, but I don’t believe you. The way you acted when I brought him up was … weird.”
Tess’ face pales slightly, and I feel an instant spike of guilt. What if she was … raped or abused? What if my father is a monster? The thought makes me so nauseous that I feel almost dizzy. I’m not out to hurt other people, I’m really not. What if Tess was trying to protect me by not bringing him up? What am I even doing right now?
“If your father cared about you, don’t you think he’d have stepped forward when our story appeared on every major news site in the country? Don’t you think he’d have found you on social media and reached out? That he’d hire a lawyer to fight for the right to see you?” Tess stands her ground, regaining that fiery rage, that righteous superiority. “You are grounded for four weeks, whether you like it or not. If your father steps forward to claim half his rights, you can take up your issues with him then.”
If your father cared about you …
I swallow hard, struggling to rein in my emotions. If I fully understood what they all were, maybe I wouldn’t have such trouble pulling myself together.
Instead, I turn to go and Tess grabs my arm, causing me to stumble slightly. My phone falls from my pocket and my face blanches just before she picks it up off the ground and stares at it. Her eyes lift to mine for the briefest of seconds before she throws it in the sink as hard as she can, shattering it the same way Parrish did Kimber’s.
This time, when I start to run, Tess doesn’t follow me.
But somebody else does.
Parrish grabs me from behind just as I step into my room, heeling the door shut behind us. His hands spin me around and then he’s crushing me into the sweet-smelling fabric of his hoodie. His fingers hold the back of my head, his other arm wrapped around my waist.
I’m crying without even realizing that I’ve started. Even though I should rightfully shove him away from me and tell him to get fucked … I find my fingers curling into his Whitehall Prep sweatshirt, squeezing it tight as tears and snot stain the fabric.
