Page 16 of Unleashed (Dark Sovereign #11)

EVERLY

Inside the elevator, my hand is splayed protectively over my stomach. I keep doing that without thinking. It’s wild how quickly that connection takes root. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, and already my instincts are constantly reaching for this new life inside me.

My other hand presses flat to the cold metal wall, trying to ground myself while the numbers tick upward, each glowing red digit a countdown I’m not ready for.

My soul is breaking.

I can still feel Isaia’s mouth on mine—hot, punishing, desperate.

How our lives on the island felt like a world of our own.

No outside noise. Just us, amidst the infinite blue, where our love and dreams were mirrored in turquoise water, silence interrupted only by the pattering of rain against palm fronds.

But now, those beautiful moments are tainted with the realization of the world around us, the reality that we weren’t alone but isolated.

My memories have taken on a bitter aftertaste, like dessert turned to ash in my mouth.

Our time on that island was a lie—from the moment I opened my eyes until Anthony ripped me away.

I still don’t know why he lied. Or maybe I do. Maybe I’m just holding on too tight to what we had for me to finally accept the truth.

If there’s one thing I could wish for right now in this moment, it’ll be for him to kiss me hard enough I’d forget all of it. The lies. The blood. The nightmare he dragged me into. His hands on my waist, fingers digging in like he could hold me together if he just held me tight enough.

And Anthony…

God, Anthony.

I just got him back. My best friend. My anchor. The one person who always made me feel safe. And now I’ve walked away from him, too. I left them both.

I’m so fucking tired.

Tired of the lies. The power games. The blood. My whole life, I’ve sworn I’d never be part of this world. I promised myself I’d do anything—everything—to stay far from the mafia’s reach. But it still found me. Wrapped itself around me. Dragged me down.

The elevator halts, a gentle shudder, and the doors glide open.

Time stops, and I hold my breath.

Standing tall, spine straight, her chin tilted just enough to look like royalty, is my mother.

She wears pearls—of course she does. A strand so perfectly placed it seems like it was measured.

Her lipstick is that soft mauve she always favored, untouched by time, not a smudge.

A cream blouse, tucked neatly into a gray wool skirt, cinched with a belt that could cut glass. Heels, polished. Poised. Controlled.

But it’s her hair that stops me.

It glows beneath the hallway light, soft waves that don’t shift even when she tilts her head. Too perfect. Too still. Too lifeless.

A wig.

The realization hits like a fist to the chest—quiet but devastating. Her hair… It’s gone. Chemotherapy has stripped her of it. The woman who once treated split ends like a crisis, who swore by weekly salon appointments and scolded me for letting my roots show, now hides behind synthetic strands.

She’s always taken pride in her appearance—of the image she curated like a brand. Polished. Immaculate. Unshakable. And now… now she wears a lie on her head just to resemble the woman she used to be.

My throat closes.

How much did it cost her? Not just the treatments—the sickness, the weight loss, the weakness—but the humiliation of watching clumps fall out in the mirror. The heartache of looking at her reflection and not recognizing it anymore.

And I wasn’t here. I was on an island, got married and played house while my mom was here all alone, fighting for her life.

Guilt and sympathy crash over me, a tidal wave, buckling my knees. I’m not even sure I’m able to carry any more guilt. First Anthony, and now her. But I did try to call. I wanted to, but Isaia always came up with excuses…and now I know why. He was afraid she’d tell me Anthony was still alive.

God. What else did he take from me? What parts of my life did he manipulate to keep his secret?

Something deeper breaks loose—something softer.

That ache for connection. For the mother, I once begged to see me for me.

To choose me. To love me first. But despite the distance that’s always kept the cracks in our relationship from mending, the pain of her choosing Michele over me, she’s still my mother.

She will always be…my mother.

A sob breaks free, jagged, and I stumble forward, collapsing into her. “Mom.” My arms wrap around her, clinging tight, face buried in her shoulder as tremors shake me.

The scent hits me instantly—that same cold, floral perfume she’s worn for as long as I can remember.

Powdery gardenias and something sharper underneath, like metal and memory.

It clings to her silk blouse, familiar and distant all at once.

The kind of scent that never changes, even when everything else does.

It smells like my childhood. Like closed doors and quiet dinners. Like control disguised as elegance. Like the nights I cried into my pillow, wishing she'd just hold me like this—and the mornings she passed me in the hallway without meeting my eyes.

Now she holds me. But it’s stiff. Careful. Like she’s afraid my grief might stain her clothes.

And still—I don’t pull away.

Because even this… even this is better than standing alone.

Time blurs, minutes swallowed whole in the flood of grief and the rare, fragile safety of her arms. When I finally pull back, my face is soaked, eyes swollen, chest raw from sobbing. I look at her, desperate to find warmth in her eyes, any kind of sign that she needs this moment as much as I do.

But her expression is ice. Eyes hard. Mouth flat and cold. And dread clamps down around me.

“Everly.” She says my name like it’s a mild inconvenience. A bitter pill she has to swallow. “What are you doing here?”

“I…uh,” I wipe my cheeks, squaring my shoulders the way she taught me. “I needed to see you.”

“I wish you had called first.” Her voice cuts, low and brittle, each word a blade.

My stomach lurches, a hollow ache spreading as I take a step back. “I didn’t know I needed an appointment to see my mother.”

“You shouldn’t have come here, Everly.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you when you started treatment, but—”

With a wave of her hand, she silences me, her expression nothing more than sharp indifference. “You really think I’m that petty? That I would harbor resentment over your absence the last few months?”

I stare at her, taken aback, bewilderment pinching my brows together. “Then…what? Why are you looking at me like I’m the world’s worst disappointment?”

“Disappointment implies that I expected something better from you.” Her arms cross, the fabric of her blouse creasing sharply under the tension. Her eyes are cold, sharp—cutting straight through me. “What are you doing here, Everly?”

“I needed to see you.” I suck in a breath.

“Fine. You saw me.”

“Mom, please—”

“I lost everything because of you.”

Her words hit like water dumped over fire—sudden, scalding, extinguishing whatever hope still flickered in my chest. I stammer back. “Mom…what are you…what are you saying?”

Uncrossing her arms, she clasps her hands together in front of her—always the conservative, composed woman. “You made choices, Everly. Choices that cost me everything.”

I’m sure I can hear my heart crack through my ribs. “That’s not—”

“Because of you, I lost the man I loved and am now a widow. A woman with cancer, and no husband to support me during the hardest time of my life.”

“I didn’t kill Michele.” I shake my head. “I didn’t pull that trigger.”

“But your husband did.”

My stomach bottoms out. “You…you know?”

She tilts her chin higher, that same elegant defiance she’s always worn like perfume. “Of course, I know.” Her tone is clipped, refined. Cruel.

“Anthony,” I whisper, not as a question, but rather a statement.

“Poor man was devastated. You broke his heart. The one man who has been nothing but good to you.”

“It’s my life,” I counter.

“Just shows how damn selfish you are. It’s your life. Your choices. No matter how many people you hurt in the process.”

“That’s a—”

“You married the man who killed my husband in a church!” she snaps, rage flaring hot across her face—then just as quickly, she inhales deep, reins it in.

Her spine straightens, chin lifts. Composure clicks back into place like it never slipped at all.

She's always in control. Even when she's bleeding, she bleeds quietly. “But, honestly, I wasn’t at all surprised. You always had zero regard for anyone else’s feelings.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m afraid it is, dear.” Her voice isn’t raised, but it doesn’t need to be. It cuts with the precision of a blade sharpened over years of silence and disappointment. And it leaves a wound so deep, I’m not sure how to stop the bleeding.

She turns away from me like she can’t stand the sight, her heels tapping sharply against the pristine marble floor that echoes too loudly in the hallway’s silence.

Then she stops—elegantly, purposefully—in front of a narrow glass side table tucked beside the wall.

Chrome legs, spotless surface, not a smudge.

Sitting dead center atop the gleaming glass is a single ivory envelope. Her fingers glide across the edge of it, delicate, practiced, like everything she does. Then she picks it up between two fingers and turns, holding it out—not to give, but to display. Like evidence. Like proof.

“What do you see, Everly?”

I blink through the blur of tears. “I… I don’t know. A table. An envelope.”

“Exactly.” Her voice is clipped, cold. Her mouth presses into a hard, thin line. “One envelope. One invitation. The only one I’ve received in months.” She turns her gaze on me—dry, unreadable, stripped of warmth. “Do you know why?”

I shake my head, throat burning, too tight to speak.