Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15)(28)

I soon learned why: This was my parents’ first real leap into society since my mother’s return from incarceration. No one had invited them anywhere since she came back, so my parents were making the opening gesture, intent on showing the royal Moroi world that Nathan and Daniella Ivashkov were worthy company. That extended to me as well, since my parents went out of their way to keep bringing up the “important business” I was allegedly on. My relationship with Jill and her seclusion were top secret—not even my parents knew about those details—but Sonya’s work with the vaccine was known, and everyone was curious to learn more.

I explained it as best I could, using layman’s terms and avoiding state secrets. Everyone seemed impressed, particularly my parents, but I was glad when the attention shifted off me. Dinner wound down with some political talk, which I found mildly interesting, and society talk, which I didn’t find interesting at all. That had never been my thing, even before the life-changing events in Palm Springs. I didn’t care about golf scores or job promotions or upcoming formal gatherings. Still conscious of my role, I smiled politely through it all and contented myself by drinking more of the excellent wine. By the time the last of the guests left, I could tell that we’d successfully won them over and that Daniella Ivashkov would be welcomed back into that royal society she craved.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, sinking into one of the formal living room’s newly upholstered loveseats. “I daresay that was a success.”

“You did well, Adrian,” my father added. That was a big compliment, coming from him. “We have a few less problems to worry about now.”

I finished off the port that had been served with dessert. “I wouldn’t say not being invited to Charlene Badica’s annual summer tea really constitutes a ‘problem,’ but if I could help, I’m glad to.”

“You both helped repair damage you’ve caused to this family. Let’s hope that continues.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going to my room. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

He’d been gone about thirty seconds when the full impact of his words penetrated my wine-soaked brain. “His room? Isn’t that your room too?”

My mother, still looking beautiful after the long evening, elegantly crossed her hands in her lap. “Actually, dear, I’m sleeping in your old room now.”

“My …” I struggled to string sense together. “Wait. Is that why you sent me to guest housing? I thought you said I needed my own space.”

“Both, really. You do need your own space. And as for the other … well, since my return, your father and I have decided things run much more smoothly if we each live our own lives here … just under one roof.”

Her tone was so easy and pleasant that it made it difficult to grasp the severity of the situation. “What’s that mean? Are you getting divorced? Are you separated?”

She frowned. “Oh, Adrian, those are such ugly words. Besides, people like us don’t get divorced.”

“And married people don’t sleep in separate bedrooms,” I argued. “Whose idea was it?”

“It was mutual,” she said. “Your father disapproves of what I did—and the embarrassment it caused all of us. He’s decided he can’t forgive that, and honestly, I don’t mind sleeping on my own.”

I was flabbergasted. “Then get a divorce, and truly be on your own! Because if he can’t forgive you for acting impulsively to save your own son … well, I’ve never been married, but that just doesn’t seem like good husband protocol. That’s not how you treat someone you love. And I don’t know how you can love someone who treats you like that.”

“Darling,” she said with a small laugh, “love doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“It has everything to do with it!” I exclaimed. I promptly dropped my voice, fearing I’d inadvertently bring my dad back, and I wasn’t quite ready for that. “Why else get married—or stay married—if not for love?”

“It’s very complicated,” she said in the kind of tone she had used on me as a child. “There’s status to consider. It wouldn’t look right if we split up. That, and … well, all of my finances are tied up with your father. We had paperwork drawn up when we married, and let’s put it this way: If he and I divorced, I’d have no way to support myself.”

I jumped to my feet. “I’ll support you then.”

She met my gaze levelly. “With what, dear? Your art classes? I know the queen doesn’t pay you for your help—though goodness knows she should.”

“I’ll get some job. Any job. We might not have much to start with, but you’d at least have your self-respect! You don’t have to stay here, tied to his money and his judgment, pretending this is love!”

“There’s no pretending about it. This is as close to love as you get in marriage.”

“I don’t believe that,” I told her. “I know what love is, Mom. I’ve had love that burns in every fiber of my being, that drives me to be a better person and empowers me through each moment of the day. If you’d ever had something like that, you’d hold on to it with every bit of strength you had.”

“You only think that because you’re young, and you don’t know any better.” She was so damnably calm, it almost made me more upset. “You think love is a reckless relationship with a dhampir, just because it’s exciting. Or are you referring to the girl you were pining for on the plane? Where is she? If your love is so all-consuming and can triumph over everything, why aren’t you together?”