Page 6 of Meet Me In The Dark

She nods. “It’s probably what’s gottenyou so far in life. But you—” she points a chipped nail at me “—you look exhausted.”

I blow out a breath and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes.

Because I am.

I’m so fucking tired lately from the noise, the pressure, of working myself half to death to outrun a past that still manages to sleep in the bed next to me.

When I don’t reply, she pats my hand and nods toward my empty plate. “Want seconds?”

“Can’t. I’ve got an event this evening. I need to leave soon.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” There’s not a shred of sarcasm in her tone.

“Worst part of the job.”

“So show a face and dip out early. You don’t owe those wankers anything.”

Nothing in my life impresses my parents. The charity galas. The six-figure donations. The towering offices with my name on the glass.

They don’t care.

I knew, even as a kid, that no matter what I chose to do, they’d tell me they were proud.

The money, the business, the suits—they never needed it.

“Once you’re happy,” my mother always says.

That’s her barometer for success. Not the profits. Not the press. Not the skyline buildings that bear ournames.

Once you’re happy.

I think I’ve been so busy striving for success that I forgot about the happiness part.

When I look back at her, she’s chewing her bottom lip while wiping her hands on a tea towel. After a long silence, she stands, crosses to the counter, and uncorks the wine like she’s got something bitter in her throat.

She grabs a glass, fills it halfway, and sits down again.

Something’s wrong.

My mother has always been chatty, but I’ve had the feeling she’s been avoiding telling me something since the moment I walked through the door.

“Spit it out.”

She doesn’t meet my eyes as she draws in a breath. “I saw your mother last week.”

The words hit like a bullet, and my blood runs cold.

“You’re my mother.”

She nods, eyes flicking up. “You know what I mean.”

Yeah, I do. She means my birth mother.

That old, rusted pain squeezes in my chest, but I swallow it down like I always do.

“She doesn’t look good,” she murmurs.

I grip the edge of the table, my voice cold as stone. “She’s well cared for. I make sure of it. Besides, she has a family looking after her.”