Make Me (Broke and Beautiful #3)(51)

Russell sighed. “You’re not an actual ninja, Alec.”

Dammit, there was a reason they never spoke about it. There was never a good time to remember the day his mother—already addicted to prescription painkillers—had washed them back with a little too much gin. An accident, they’d called it. But Russell knew the truth. Had witnessed her depression, day in and day out. Brought her the tissue box in whatever room she’d chosen to cry in. The accident wouldn’t have happened if her marriage had been happy. If she’d been content with her house in Queens. Her children.

Russell.

He took a deep breath, working through the memory in stages. Only now, the disturbing images he’d harbored since childhood were laced with visions of Abby, fleeing from him. The realization on her face that she’d gotten into bed with the wrong man. One who could never make her happy. Leaving her alone had been the right thing to do.

But God, it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

“Mr. Hart?” A female secretary approached the waiting area. “Follow me, please.”

ABBY STOOD OUTSIDE the door of her parents’ Park Avenue high-rise residence, the heels of her sandals sinking into the plush hallway carpeting. It was Friday morning, and she should have been at the office, but that would have been a waste of the full head of steam she’d woken up with. Late last night, she’d finally reached a solution that would make her father’s life work amount to something. A lot of something. Not to mention, her idea would save her own sanity in the process. The thought of sitting behind her desk in the silent office made her stomach turn. No, it was time to go see her father.

Her confidence had wavered slightly downstairs when the doorman hadn’t even recognized her face. Or name. Rightly so, since she’d only been to the co-op once for a housewarming party. But it wasn’t normal to feel like a stranger going to see your own parents. Since returning from the Hamptons, she’d felt like a stranger wherever she went. Even in her own apartment, despite Honey’s and Roxy’s attempts to raise her spirits. She’d found herself on the beach in Southampton—found her voice—and now she felt stripped of it.

Like it had never existed at all.

Today, she would get it back, albeit in different manner. She wouldn’t be the footstool propping up her father’s company anymore. A footstool who’d already been divested of one leg, thanks to Russell. The remaining ones were starting to creak, the fabric wearing thin. If she didn’t do something proactive now, she wasn’t sure how long those legs would hold her.

She raised her hand to knock, wondering why her stepmother hadn’t opened the door yet since being that the doorman had rung the apartment to check if Abby was welcome. But it dropped by her side. Why had she gone and thought of Russell? She’d managed to cast him out for the entire morning, sending him to a far corner of her mind, where he couldn’t be as effective. Every time she broke free for a few minutes, a reminder of him would drag her back into the trap. Getting ready for bed last night, she’d refused to go through her nightly routine of checking all the locks. The way Russell always reminded her to do. Then she’d lain there wide-awake for hours, until some responsibility forced her out of bed to complete the task, hearing his voice the entire time. Pull the latch, angel. It only takes a second. Do it for me, would you?

How could someone who cared so much leave her stranded in hurt like this? She hated him for it even as her mind attempted to pin a reason on why she hadn’t been enough. Why they hadn’t been enough to make him happy.

Today, she would be enough for herself. She might have an ingrained need to please others, but she’d become a hazard to her own peace of mind. No more. This was her life, and she was done living it for other people. People who were supposed to care about her. Love her.

Abby rapped on the door, the sound echoing in the posh hallway. A few seconds later, a woman in a maid’s uniform opened the door. “Hello. Miss Sullivan?”

“Yes.” The woman stepped aside, and Abby entered the apartment, marveling over how little she recognized in the space. Not one familiar piece of furniture or family photo to be seen. “Is my mother home?”

“Abby.” She turned in time to see her stepmother breeze into the room, elegantly dressed as usual and in the process of ending a cell-phone call. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan,” the maid said, looking between mother and daughter. “The doorman rang, but you didn’t want to be disturbed. I just thought—”

“She just thought since I’m your daughter, my showing up wouldn’t make you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Although that just about sums up how I feel.” Abby swallowed the weakness in her voice. “I came to see my father.”

The older woman smoothed her skirt. “You know his wishes, Abby.”

“Respectfully, Mother? Every moment of my time this past month has been dedicated to his company. Our family’s company. So maybe he doesn’t want to see me, but I’m done giving a shit.”

Satisfied with her stepmother’s dropped jaw, Abby strode toward the staircase, taking them two at a time, not even sure in which room she’d find her father. She’d never even been upstairs. How pathetic was that? The sad realization only reinforced how much of a real home she’d made with Roxy and Honey, unconventional though it might be. It was hers. Guilt for not confiding in her roommates clawed its way up her determination, but she set it aside for now. Fix one thing at a time.