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Just like that.The independence I’d fought for is gone.

Maybe it’s nothing to Adonis, but it’s all I had.

Chapter 13

Blurred Lines

ADONIS

A WEEK LATER

There’s something to be said about an only child’s relationship with their parents. Something I can’t say because I’ve always been more of a visitor in their world than a permanent fixture.

They sit across from me at a table overlooking downtown Wildwood and all I feel is a niggling of agitation that I left work to have this lunch with them.

“We heard about your new houseguest,” my mother announces with a soft clearing of her throat. Her eyes clash with mine, demanding a follow up to her announcement.

Smile sponsored by Valium.

Wardrobe sponsored by Dior.

A lifelong aerobics class pass and more time spent in the steam room than should be allowed has her slim frame in prime form.

My mother has never denied the fact that she likes being thin more than she likes most things.

When I was younger, she never missed a chance to tell me how my arrival sent her into a spiral until she lost the baby weight.

With skin the color of cocoa and her deep red hair styled in a pixie cut, Adriana Samson is as beautiful as she is foreboding.

Every time someone mistakes her as my sister, I swear tears of joy well in her eyes. There’s no higher compliment for her. I used to think it was sad. But I’ve come to accept it. It’s who she is, and it’s served her well all these years.

Noticing my attention on her, she smiles again. It doesn’t reach her eyes. No emotion ever does. My father sits beside her, stoic as his eyes rake over me.

Minus the locs, he’s staring at his reflection from twenty years ago.

The only evidence of his age is the distinctive gray hair edging out his formerly ebony strands.

Antoine Samson says everything without speaking a word. It’s in the weight of his stare, the hard set of his jaw and the fidgeting with the signet ring on his right index finger.

Based on how slowly he’s spinning the gold ring, he’s not disappointed, just agitated.

Reading his mood, either through telepathy or ease born of the decades they’ve been together, my mother says, “You know, it’s untoward to have a woman living in your house when you’re set to be married to someone else in less than a year.”

This lunch invite isn’t what I expected. I don’t know why I had any expectations when it comes to the two people across from me, but sometimes I liked to visit theland of delusion and overestimate my importance in their life.

With a scoff, I loosen my tie even though it’s only the middle of the day, and I wish the water glass in front of me had tequila in it instead. Because I didn’t get the gushing parents who expressed their pride for anything I did. I got the pair that useduntowardin casual conversation and treated every discussion we had like a business meeting.

“We’re not engaged,” I tell her, the reminder hitting me like an iceberg after months of smooth sailing.

I haven’t thought about the woman I’m set to marry in a long, long time.

In fact, the only person I’ve thought about is the menace currently residing under my roof. The woman who can’t stand me, but I can’t stop thinking about.

It seems like guilt would be an appropriate reaction to that discovery, yet I feel nothing. I’ve always felt nothing when it comes to Chiara. I have to believe most people feel that way about spouses who are chosen for them.

My mother toys with her hair. “Not yet. But let’s be honest, it’ll just be a formality at that point. You were always going to end up with Chiara.”

The flippant little lift of her shoulder sets my molars on edge.