Page 24 of Merry Fake Bride

“Mom—”

“Don’t youMomme,” she scolds, her hand raised with the threat of another strike.

“How dare you? I was ill thinking my only son had left me, and then I called the hospital to learn that it’s not you who’s injured but yourfiancée?”

She talks a mile a minute and it takes my mind a second to catch up.

This isn’t the first time she’s exploded at me and it won’t be the last.

I’m well practiced at navigating her explosions as painlessly as possible, but I had no intention of her finding out about Devon.

I should have known she would dig and dig.

Some days, I think her possessive nature comes from a protectiveness over the family name and our eye-watering wealth, and other days, I fear that she needs help I can’t provide.

My attempts to get her that help often end with me as the bad guy, so it’s easier to accept her mood swings and go along with her claims.

Sometimes the protectiveness is nice, but mostly, it comes across as judgmental.

Like now as she glares at me with narrowed, tear-stained eyes waiting for an explanation.

“I’m okay,” I say, gently grasping her shoulders to calm her down. “Look at me, Mom. I’m fine. See? Not a scratch.”

Her eyes dart back and forth over me and she grumbles under her breath, then shrugs my touch off and storms away.

“An engagement, Kairo? Did I raise you to be this stupid? What kind of man pops a question without introducing the woman to his own mother, hmm?”

She strides into the kitchen, barefoot, and picks up a half-drunk glass of red wine.

I follow and force a smile.

There’s no point in asking why she’s ever here because that will start an even worse argument.

“You know, most men my age don’t need their mother’s permission to ask a woman for her hand in marriage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what age you are. I am your mother and you…” She tips her wine glass toward me. “You are a Sycamore. You can’t just get engaged to anyone.”

“I’m thirty-nine. I can get engaged toanyone.”

“No, Kairo!” she snaps and slams the glass down so red wine sloshes up the sides and spills onto the dark marble countertop. “That’s now how the world works and you know it! Are you trying to hurt me? Is this my punishment for being such a terrible mother? Is this because of your father? Did I hurt you and this is how you’re getting revenge?”

Big tears well in her eyes while it feels like her words reach deep past my ribcage and squeeze the life out of my heart.

Moving around her, I grab some paper towels and start soaking up the wine.

Telling her the truth would bring her relief, I know, but in doing so, it would bring an end to this arrangement and Devon would be left with an eyewatering bill.

I can’t let that happen.

“Mom… do you remember when you met Dad?”

She picks up her glass and stomps away from me like a petulant teen. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

“How did you know you wanted to marry him?”

She pauses near the fridge and reaches up, lightly caressing the picture we have of him there. “I just knew,” she says softly. “I knew it as soon as I saw him.”

“Exactly. That’s what happened to me. I found someone and I knew instantly that she was who I wanted to be with. Don’t you see?”