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“After all this time? Aftereverything?” I let out a dry laugh. “So what, you’ve had some kind of epiphany that you suddenly want to mend fences?Nowyou want to fix our so-called friendship?”
“I never stopped wanting to fix it.”
I scoff. “Oh yeah? Then how come this is the first time I’ve heard from you in months? You called me about your weird-ass mafia wedding, but you never once picked up the phone to ask about my son.”
She inhales sharply. “I… I didn’t think I had the right to.”
“You don’t.”
Another silence.
Then—her voice cracks.
“You truly hate me, don’t you?” she whispers.
I stare at the wall, my throat tightening.
Do I?
Sometimes, I think I really do.
She was the only person I thought I could trust. The one person I believed would never betray me.
And like everyone else in my life—except Hunter—she failed me.
I don’t answer her.
Because maybe, just maybe, silence is the most honest response I can give.
“I’ll say one final thing before I let you go, Megan.”
Naomi’s voice carries an edge of urgency, but I don’t know if it’s because she’s afraid of losing me for good or if she’s just trying to soothe her own guilt.
“I need you to remember that you’re not the only one who comes from a fucked-up family.”
I scoff. “And how exactly would I know that, Naomi? When did you ever tell me?”
For years, I thought she was just like me. An ordinary girl from nowhere California trying to find her place in the world.
An aspiring stylist to the stars. A party girl. Someone running toward fame and fortune, not away from something darker.
But that wasn’t Naomi at all, was it?
She was a liar.
A mafia princess from New Orleans, running from an arranged marriage, hiding behind the persona of a carefree LA girl.
I shake my head. “When exactly was I supposed to figure that out? When you were texting your ‘mystery guy’? When we used to window shop for designer clothes, you pretended you’d never owned some of those brands?” My voice hardens. “Or was it when you stood by and said nothing while your father held me captive?”
Naomi sighs, and for a moment, she sounds exhausted.
“I misspoke,” she admits. “What I meant to say is… I hope you’ll take into account that I come from a complicated family. And I need some grace here.”
“Grace?” I let out a short, bitter laugh.
Naomi has always been good at making excuses. She hides behind them like armor, shielding herself from blame, from consequence.
“Sometimes, people do better once they know better,” she continues. “And I won’t sit idly by and allow my father to hurt you again.”