Page 133 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two

“You love him,” Riale says, as if it’s a new development. And it’s not. Regardless of how much he’s hurt me and what hurt will come from being around him, coparenting with him, I’ll always love him.

Even though I hate this fact.

Shrugging, I push my hair over my shoulder.

“Talk later, boys,” I say and walk toward the garden.

TWENTY-NINE

SHAE

Aweek passes, and it’s like we’re frozen in time.

Storm has been pushing forward to connect with the kids. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he’s there. He tells the kids goodnight before putting them to bed, even though Tempest hasn’t acknowledged his presence once, and Raiden is wary but still follows Storm like a magnet.

As for us…well, it’s like Storm decided there was only room to repair one relationship, and he chose the one with the kids. Not that I blame him. I’d do the same if I were in his shoes.

Still, there’s a stupid part of me that’s a little hurt at being set aside, even though my more logical side sees things for what it is.

And also, my logical side likes to remind me that even though Storm and I haven’t stolen away for any more private moments, he still manages to touch me, even if it’s in passing.

His smiles feel like the sun coming out—a fact that my logical sidealsolikes to remind me is dangerous and can only lead to nowhere good.

So, I do the thing that’s always guaranteed to bring me down to Earth: I run to my mama.

“It’s about time you gave your mama a call,” she says as soon as she answers. I grimace. Mama has never been one for texting, and while she’s called me daily since I got back from Paris, I haven’t spent more than three minutes on the phone with her, instead giving the call to Tempest and Raiden.

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, feeling twelve years old again. Mama doesn’t say anything, letting the silence resonate between us like an accusation.

All right. Time to pay up.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been very forthcoming, Mama,” I say. A breeze kicks up from where I sit on the balcony. I’m right outside a library I discovered while exploring the mansion a few days ago. The space wasn’t cleaned like the others we use regularly, with thick tarps covering furniture and dust coating the bookshelves.

I was drawn to the French doors and the stone balcony overlooking the garden, and for the last few days, it’s been my private retreat.

“What a mess, baby,” she says. I can picture what she’s doing now—sitting on the sofa she won’t let me replace, with a cup of coffee on the side table and her bonnet still on before she decides to greet the day.

“I’ll explain,” I say, cracking my neck from side to side. “First, about Storm. He…showed up at my office a few weeks ago, while you were still in Paris with the kids.”

Mama stays silent, so I continue. I know she won’t offer her verdict until I’ve laid it all on the table.

“When I met you there, I didn’t know…” I inhale, preparing myself for my next words. “I didn’t know he didn’t know about the kids.”

Mama sucks in a shocked breath.

“Shae Olivya Rivers, you explain yourself right now!” Mama presses, and I shrink into myself as a cardinal lands on the railing.

“I tried. God, Mama, Itried.I called him every day, left messages. After the twins were born, I still called. I thought he didn’t care. But he never got them.”

I sniff, and when did I start crying? I hate crying, and I’ve shed more tears over Storm Sandoval in the last few weeks than ever since the last time I had drama with him.

“I see,” Mama says, her skepticism clear in her voice.

“It’s true, Mama. I know it sounds like a line, but…just trust me that I’ve checked it out and he really didn’t know.”

We both fall silent, and I watch as the bird hops from one end of the railing to the other before flying away toward the trees.

“Well, in that case,” Mama says, “that poor boy.”