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“What family?” I keep my voice in the same low whisper she’s hissing at me with, but I’ll shout if I have to. My hands are shaking with rage and fear and there’s no telling where it might go if I let it.
She looks at me like I’m the one who threw the slap. “‘What family’? ‘What family’? This is how you thank me and your father?—”
“For what? For sparing me the disgrace of being publicly disowned?” I don’t have anything to put into the filing cabinet across the room, but I grab a stack of papers just so I have something to tap against the desk. I need to distance myself from Ophelia or I might get matricidal in a hurry. “I’m the one who did that for you, remember? I disowned myself. And before you talk to me about humiliation, just remember which of us got thrown out of the restaurant today.”
“What did you do to stop it?” she screeches. “You just sat there and watched your own mother get manhandled by those thugs! Those brutes! You did nothing!”
I take a deep breath and keep pretending to file the paperwork in the cabinet. It could be crayon drawings or priceless masterpieces, for all I know—I just need an excuse not to look at her. I need to buy time to collect myself before I do or say anything I’ll regret.
Of course, Ophelia takes my silence as an invitation to keep going. “To think, after everything our family has been through… After all that your father and I have done to keep this family?—”
“You know, you keep saying ‘our family,’ ‘this family,’ ‘your family,’ as if you have any fucking clue what the word actually means.”
I barely hold back my ironic, bitter laugh. I’ve learned more about “family” in a few short weeks with a literal crime syndicate than I have in a whole lifetime with the sick motherfuckers who call themselves my parents.
“Don’t you laugh at me, young lady.” She raises her hand again to point her quivering finger at me. “I am your mother.”
“Are you, though?”
She pales. “Excuse me?”
“For someone who keeps claiming to be my mother, you sure don’t act like it.”
I’ve hit her below the belt. The evidence is welling up in her eyes.
But I don’t feel even one percent guilty for saying it. Someone has to.
“I don’t know everything about what happened between you and the Chekhovs—and I don’t want to know, either. But if you’re feeling any sort of envy, I think that’s probably correct. Asya could give you plenty of tips on how to actually be a halfway decent mother, starting with not abandoning your children.”
Ophelia blinks at me. For a second, I think I might have actually gotten through to her. Could it be…?
Then her thin lips twist into a victorious little smile.
That is never, ever good.
“You may be right,” she confesses with a fake, half-hearted sigh. It’s a bullshit show of surrender she always does when she knows that somehow, some-freaking-way, she’s about to splay out a winning hand. “I just hope she’s been as forthcoming as you hope.”
I don’t like the way she says that. Especially with the way her eyes are glued to my necklace. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m sure she’s already complimented your little dog collar. It is quite lovely, even if it’s basically a brand.” She flicks her gaze over my body. “Or has he marked you with one of those already? A tattoo, perhaps?”
My fingers press to the center diamond as I take a step back. “What are you talking about?”
Ophelia’s smirk grows. “Oh. So you don’t know?” She tilts her head to one side and regards me with false pity. “I guess that’s partly my fault. I should’ve taught you better. Haven’t you noticed how people look at you?”
The hell is she talking about?
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she hisses under her breath when I fumble helplessly for what I’m supposed to say next. “You’re wearing his name, you foolish girl. Might as well include ‘Property Of.’”
I snort. “And you would know this how…?”
“Do you think I wouldn’t recognize the symbols of your father’s decades-long employer?” She sniffs, as if the memory of Dad’s old job, the one he lost right before Melanie’s scandal, is stinking up the room. “That family has never been subtle. Clearly.”
I don’t believe her.
I don’t want to believe her.
But she has me thinking. Pulling up recent memories of going around the city while wearing Pasha’s gift, and how people just seemed to…
