Brutal Obsession (104)

Fuck.

Greyson was planning on talking to him tonight.

Willow pulls me away, and I take a deep breath as soon as we’re out of sight. He freaks me out more than Greyson ever did.

We exit the stadium and step onto the sidewalk. I check both ways, trying to find my mother. I finally spot her across the street, pacing in front of a sleek black car.

“Violet!” she calls. She waves her hands.

Willow and I cross the street together, but I make the last few steps alone.

Even though time has passed, she appears… the same. People always said we looked similar. Like you could see us and tell we were related. Sisters, people often said, because Mom’s skin is smooth. Her hair is perfectly coifed, golden blonde. The features we share are those she can’t alter with Botox. The shape of our eyes, our noses, lips. The heart-shaped face.

Where I try to keep myself lean for ballet, she has curves. Hips and an ass that used to catch all the guys’ attention, her breasts—well, those are fake, at any rate. Not that anyone cares.

I don’t know what I expected. New wrinkles at the corners of her eyes maybe, or streaks of gray in her hair.

Whatever I think I might see… I don’t.

“What’s up?” I internally cringe at the question.

She twists her hands together, then sticks them in her pockets. “What’s been going on with you, Violet?”

I let out a choked laugh. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not this girl.” She steps closer, and her eyes dart over my shoulder. “You know the agreement we made.”

“I signed the NDA. What more is there?” My skin prickles. I sense there is more. The senator’s secretary let something slip that had me wondering—but this confirms it. “What did you do, Mom?”

She straightens. Her expression turns stony. “Come with me.”

She grabs my arm and tows me back toward the stadium. I stumble along with her, glancing over my shoulder. Willow trails us, her brows drawn down in confusion.

We get inside, and she drags me up the stairs. My stomach is in knots. We go around the corner, heading for the row of suites. I have a feeling I know exactly where we’re going. And yet, I can’t seem to slam on the brakes.

I need to know what kind of deal with the devil she made.

This moment is inevitable. It has been inevitable since my mother pushed me to file a lawsuit. Brought in the shiny, expensive attorney who sat next to my hospital bed and took notes, took pictures. It was invasive. The whole thing made me sick to my stomach… but I did it because I trusted her.

Somewhere along the line, my trust in her broke.

Maybe it was when she dropped me off at CPU and didn’t look back. Maybe it was earlier than that, when the light in her eyes dimmed when she watched me. Like I was the failure because my dance career shattered worse than my leg.

Either way, this distrust gnaws at me.

All the way to the senator’s suite.

She pushes the door open and goes inside. No hesitation. I keep my focus on her quick, short stride. Her body is tense. She raises her hand to fiddle with her hair, then drops it before touching a strand. Her mouth is pulled into a wide, fake smile.

My muscles tremble.

Willow is stopped at the door. I don’t realize it until a suited man moves in my peripheral, shutting the door with a quiet click right in her face.

I’m on my own.

Ahead of us and to the left are rows of chairs for viewing the game. A long table with white tablecloths is set against the right wall with a buffet-style assortment of finger foods. Behind us, against the wall, is a mini bar. So the rich don’t have to travel far for their liquor.

The senator is holding a mini conference toward the front, right by the glass. He and his friends don’t notice us enter. Their conversation continues, loud and boisterous. Below, the game continues. The clock ticks down. The Hawks are in the lead by one.

Something must’ve happened, because there’s a Knight in the penalty box.

Mom pinches the inside of my arm, and I snap back to attention.

“Senator,” she calls, guiding me with her.

Her arm is wrapped around mine now, and her nails are lodged in my skin. She gives me another pinch when I put up the slightest resistance. The pain is localized, but it still hurts.

Grey’s dad turns our way. His expression shuts down.

Not good.

I can’t tell if it’s me or my mother who causes it, and I swallow past a thick lump in my throat. I don’t like him. For six months—seven, now, actually—he’s been the boogieman in my mind. The one who has the power to ruin me. Financially, socially. I have no doubt that he could make it so no ballet company gave me a contract.

He’s got the reach and the incentive.

“Ms. Reece,” the senator replies.

His gaze lands on me, and shame bleeds through me. I wonder if he’s silently calling me out on my relationship with his son.

The son who loves you, I remind myself. I’m not sure why that’s a comfort, but it is. It soothes some of the turmoil inside me.

Mom thinks he’s talking to her, and she steps forward with renewed vigor. Like this warm welcome, if we can call it that, is exactly the sign she was looking for that things would work out in her favor.

Whichever way that is.

“James,” she greets him.