Page 11 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

ERICA

M um is the last person I want to see because I know she’ll have something to say about my fall on the runway today.

Steeling myself for an inevitable attack, I tie my hair up and hobble towards the door, but before I get there, Mum swings into the apartment like she owns it.

I really need to get those keys off her.

Maybe change the locks. I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman whose mother has keys to her flat.

Sometimes I hate myself for how pathetic this picture is.

Sure, on the outside it looks great. I’m a multimillionaire model and part owner of a cosmetics and luxury fashion company.

But beneath the surface… it’s fucked as all hell.

“I thought you were sick?” I ask.

She casts me a fluttering eye roll. “I miraculously recovered when I remembered how you mess up when I’m not there.

” Sarcasm drips from her tone. No matter how old I get, or how much money I make, comments like that always sting.

“We need to talk about these photos of you today. I’m seeing them all over my feed.

” She stills, tapping a finger to her lips as she ponders my face.

I restrain the urge to look away. “At least you weren't smiling. Thank God for that. I can't fathom how it contorts your features. So peculiar.” Shaking her head, she blinks and shifts into business mode, scrolling on her phone, barely looking at me as she walks past. Each click of her heels is a wordless reprimand that has me bracing. She’s wearing a long black dress beneath a camel overcoat, and her dark hair is blow-dried to perfection. She’s the epitome of middle-aged glamour.

I close the door and lean against it. Mum glances up from her phone to do the usual sweep up and down of my attire, her gaze as disparaging as ever.

“Tracksuit. Really? I hope no one saw you in that. It’s not on brand.

Erica Lefroy is the face of high fashion.

Glamour.” She inhales through flared nostrils, turns her palms up, and glances deliberately at her attire.

“Look at me. I left the house to come here, but I turned myself out properly in case anyone saw me.”

Guess she’s not going to ask about my ankle then.

She steps towards me and teases down some strands of hair from my untidy up-do, assessing the effect, but a moment later she throws her hands in the air and lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You shouldn’t wear your hair up unless you really have to.

Your ears are very prominent. Your father’s ears.

Dear Lord. We should have had those pinned back. ”

The familiar void drops through my centre, threatening to reduce me to a heap on the floor. She’s always assessed me like this. And I am always found wanting. I steel my spine. “My ears are fine.”

“Are they? Have you considered that they might be part of the reason you keep failing to get a role in any of those movies you’re auditioning for?

” I wince. Shit . I’d tried to keep this from Mum.

“Oh, yes.” She jabs an accusatory finger at my face.

“I know you’ve been going behind my back.

A rejection letter came to our joint email. ”

“And you opened it?”

“Think you’re too good for modelling, do you?” Mum continues, thrusting her chin forward.

“No, that’s not it—”

“You want to try and operate without me? Ha!” The pop of brash laughter makes me retreat, and I edge back against the door.

“Think you can go it alone in a new industry, do you?” I say nothing because this is exactly why I want to shift into acting.

I want something that’s mine, not ours. Not Mum’s.

A career I can build myself, and be proud of.

“Yes,” I say, trying to make my voice sound strong.

“You’d fail, Erica.” She tuts. “An actress? You might have the looks, but you need actual talent for that.” She exhales theatrically, and a lump rises in my throat.

She always knows how to hit where it hurts.

“I could have been a fabulous actress. I was on the cusp of great fame when I fell pregnant with you.” She turns and marches further into my apartment without looking back.

“Honestly, having a child ruined my life. I sacrificed everything for you. Everything .” She spins back to me, her eyes dark.

“And look where it’s got me. A daughter who falls on the runway like an amateur.

” It takes all my resolve not to crumble, but I remind myself I can take this criticism.

It’s not new. I’ve been handling it for years.

Mum clears her throat, and the rattle of it is full of derisive laughter.

“You’re a laughing stock.” Her voice turns cold and deadly.

“And I will not have it. If you pursue this acting thing when you haven’t a scrap of ability in that department, you will make things worse.

Do not shame me. Promise me you’ll give this insanity up. ”

Never. But the word sticks in my throat, wedged behind the lump. I can’t force it out.

Mum’s mouth puckers. “I see you mean to say no. Well, if you are so set on it, let me help you.” She does another round of inspecting me, this time walking around me as though I’m on display in a shop window, and I try not to shrivel in response.

“The boobs.” She waves her hand at my chest. “Far too small. All right for modelling, but if you want to make it as a female lead in the movies, you need bigger breasts.”

I glance down at my chest. I’ve never had an issue with my boobs, but under her scrutiny the lump in my throat crawls into my mouth, and the back of my nose stings.

“Tiny, aren’t they?” Mum’s vigorous nodding tells me she assumes I’m in agreement. “I’ve thought it for a long time, but I’ve held my tongue. And it has pained me. But now, with this movie business, you’ve forced my hand. I can’t keep quiet. Your breasts are far too small. Not like mine.”

The tiniest flicker of anger bursts through the sadness that has been creeping up on me, but when Mum arches her back so her breasts stick out, and stares down at them with as much pride as another mother might look at her newborn, the sadness snuffs it out again.

I don’t think she’s ever looked at me like that.

I press a hand over my chest. “I think they’re fine,” I say, but my voice sounds weak.

“They don’t have to be huge, darling. Just a bit bigger. I’ll book a consultation. I know the perfect surgeon.”

I guess that’s it then. Decision made.

As if she hasn’t blown in here like a hurricane and torn me apart, Mum perches on the edge of my sofa, where Seb was sitting not long ago.

I wish, once again, that I hadn’t sent him away.

If he’d been here, he might have been able to shield me from this.

She smooths her skirt with one hand, then glances up like she can feel my stare.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea? ”

Fuck’s sake . The tiny flare of anger burns a little brighter this time. She really doesn’t care about the me beneath the body at all.

My ankle throbs but I hop over to the kitchen and begin making tea, which I do very quickly given the boiling water tap and its proximity to the fridge for milk, but even so, every movement I make is loaded with resentment.

I shuffle across with her tea, being careful not to spill it. But I do anyway.

“Erica!” She stares at the puddle of tea on the floor. “So clumsy. No wonder you tripped over today.”

I grit my teeth and hand her the mug. She peers into it. “Milk?”

“Yes.”

“No. Not milk. Black. I like my tea black. How could you forget?” She holds the tea out like she expects me to take it away again.

“I hope you haven’t been having milk in your tea.

We save so many calories by not adding it.

Not to mention how bad dairy is for one’s skin.

” Her eyes flash from the milky mug to my face.

“Your complexion is looking a bit off. You need to watch what you’re eating. ”

Fuck this . I’m tired. I feel dreadful about what just happened with Seb.

My ankle is sore. I want to sit down, take the weight off it— take the weight off everything— but I don’t want to get any closer to Mum.

Those claws could draw blood. I take her tea away, moving back to the kitchen island where I settle on a stool, close enough to the open plan living area that I can justify the distance I’m putting between us.

I sip on the tea myself, holding eye contact with Mum the entire time. A deliberate flaunting of her rules.

Her eyes narrow, and she launches herself off the sofa. “Don’t push me, young lady,” she says as she snatches the mug from my hands. She pours the whole thing down the sink, then turns to face me, leaning back against the counter. “We need to do damage control.”

I blink. “Now? I’m in pain. I want to rest.”

“Yes, now.” She purses her lips as if preparing to say something, but then her gaze flicks back to the sofa and her eyes widen.

Shit . The end of Seb's tie is poking out from beneath a cushion, as if I tried to hide the fucking thing.

Mum lunges and tugs it free, holding it up between thumb and forefinger like it's a piece of dirty lingerie. “Is this his?”

Hot pinpricks spear my skin. “I… uh…”

“Erica.” Mum snaps the tie taut in both hands. “Is this Sebastian Hawkston’s tie?”

“Yes,” I admit.

She tosses it back on the sofa and paces back to the sink, fury flashing in her eyes.

She grips the edge with one hand, letting her lids close for a second before leaning back against it and staring at me.

“I’ve spoken to you about your friendship with him, and I do not like to be ignored.

If you start to disobey my rules, all this”—she wafts a hand over me, my apartment, the room in general—“starts to fall apart. I’ve seen it happen before, and you are not immune.

Reputations can be destroyed faster than we can build them. ”