Page 152

I wince at the sound of his name in my head.

I’m dazed and confused over the bloody dream, and then, waking up to Archer’s voice in my head. I really thought those nightmares were over. All the time I was with him, I didn’t have a single dream about Mom. But now, ever since I came back to my childhood home a month ago, the nightmares have returned. They’re more vivid now. I see Mom’s face so clearly, her golden eyes, her hair in a ballerina bun, and her mouth that looks like a heart when she sits on the floor to tie my laces.

I told Sole I didn’t want to see her picture. But it’s as if my brain wants me to remember. The door to my memories is wide open, but I refuse to walk through it and see what really happened to her that night all those years ago.

A knock on the door startles me back to reality. When Sole walks in, I release a breath as the odd adrenaline rush seeps through my body.I’m safe here. I don’t need to be scared, I remind myself.

“You overslept again.” Sole pulls back the curtains and closes the balcony doors. “You don’t have much time to get ready and meet your dad for breakfast downstairs.”

“Okay.” I let my feet fall to the side of the bed and then I trudge to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth.

I’ve been doing this routine for the last month since we came back to this house. Three months have gone by since he left. This routine is the only thing keeping me sane. The monotony and familiarity of it is soothing to me. I dress quickly and put my hair up in a bun. By the time, I make it downstairs, Dad is already in the dining room with a half-eaten breakfast in front of him.

“Good morning.” He glances up from his newspaper.

“Good morning,” I mumble and sit in front of my grapefruit and black coffee.

Something about my greeting irks Dad. He puts the newspaper down and glares at me. “How much longer before you put this attitude away? It’s been three months. I thought dancing made you happy.”

Happy? How can I ever be happy again? I’m empty inside. Does he not understand that? Three months, three years. It doesn’t matter. I’m never going stop aching for him. I’m never going to stop wishing Hunter hadn’t killed him.

I stare at Dad.

“It does,” I finally answer.

“He wasn’t good for you.” Dad picks up his newspaper. “Everything is as it should be. Do you understand?”

For a moment, anger begins to pool in my stomach. A bunch ofhismemories threaten to break through, so I push them down and away. I shove everything out of my mind until there’s nothing left, only a dark void that extends from my brain down into my chest and toes. When I look up again, my fears and frustrations are gone. And there’s no pain.

“I’m late for rehearsal.” I drink the black coffee in one gulp. “I have to get going.”

I get up to leave, but Dad grabs my upper arm. His touch is like a slap to the face. I recoil from him, but he holds me firmly in place. My heart races as alarm bells go off in my head. I glance down at his thumb on the inside of my elbow. He slides it across then releases me.

“You’re driving with me today. Sit down and finish your breakfast. Sole,” he calls out.

As always, Sole enters the room as if she’d been standing just on the other side of the wall, waiting to see if I need anything.

“Yes, sir.” Her serene smile soothes me.

“Paloma will have one boiled egg this morning.” He picks up the carafe off the table and pours more coffee in my cup. “And tell Nico to be ready for us in fifteen minutes.”

“Right away, sir.” She dips her head then leaves.

I lower myself onto the chair as the adrenaline wears off and the feeling of nothing settles back into my body. I sit there and eat the breakfast Dad ordered for me. When I’m finished, he rises and waits for me to do the same.

“I’ll stop by after work to watch your rehearsals,” he announces as he gestures for me to go ahead.

I nod and amble toward the front door. Outside, Nico is waiting by the car with the back seat door wide open. He offers me a firm nod, then helps me inside. Ever since I returned home, Nico doesn’t speak to me anymore. Not like he used to. I don’t blame him though. I’m not exactly fun to talk to these days.

During the eighty-minute commute into the city, I sit in the back seat staring at nothing in the distance, rubbing the inside of my wrist. Dad spends most of that time telling me about the legal status of my inheritance. Elections are coming up, and he needs me to make a sizable donation to his campaign.

“Who is this Gardenia woman anyway?” he asks. “Was she his mistress?”

“No, they’re just good friends.”Were good friends, I correct myself. “She’s like a sister to him. They’ve known each other since they were little.”

“Where did he grow up again?” Dad watches me intently, but I don’t turn to face him.

“Somewhere outside of London, I think,” I answer as my pulse picks up its pace.