Take a Hint, Dani Brown (The Brown Sisters #2)(98)

Mum gave a glacial stare. “I beg your pardon, Eve Antonia Brown.”

“Let’s focus on the issue at hand, shall we, love?” Dad interjected. “Eve. What’s happened to your business?”

Ah. Yes. Well. There was the rub. “The thing is, Dad, Mum . . . I have decided that wedding planning isn’t for me after all. So, I dissolved the business, deleted the website and disconnected the URL, and closed down all associated social media accounts.” It was best, Eve had found, to simply rip off the bandage.

There was a pause. Then Mum said tightly, “So you gave up. Again.”

Eve swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. The cadence of that single word, the world of disappointment in Mum’s voice, made her feel small and cold and trapped. “Well, no, not exactly. It was just an experience I stumbled into—Cecelia’s original wedding planner was rubbish, so—”

“She was an ordinary woman who couldn’t deal with a spoiled brat like Cecelia Bradley-Coutts,” Dad cut in, frowning deeply. “But you could. You did. And you seemed to enjoy yourself, Eve. We thought you’d—found your calling.”

A cold bead of sweat began to drip, slow and steady, down Eve’s spine. Her calling? Eve wasn’t the sort of woman who had callings. She was free and loose, thank you very much. It suited her disposition far better than—than—

Than shoving everything she was and everything she had into a single dream, and failing, and hurting herself as punishment. There was a little demon in her head that lived for punishment. But that was okay; she knew how to outwit that demon now.

What she didn’t know was how to explain all this to her parents. “It’s for my own good, really,” she began, light and airy. “Everything went suspiciously well—you know I probably couldn’t recreate such success again. Wouldn’t want to disappoint myself.”

Dad stared, crestfallen. “But Eve. You’re disappointing us.”

She flinched.

“You can’t avoid trying at anything in case you fail,” he told her gently. “Failure is a necessary part of growth.”

She wanted to say, That’s what you think. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t, because she wasn’t about to slice open years-old scars for them now. Mum and Dad didn’t need to know about all of Eve’s little imbalances. She handled things just fine.

But clearly, her parents didn’t agree, because Mum was shaking her head and saying, “Enough is enough, Eve. You’re twenty-six years old, perfectly intelligent and absolutely capable, yet you waste time and opportunities like—like a spoiled brat. Like Cecelia.”

Eve sucked in an outraged breath. “I am not spoiled!” She thought for a moment. “Well, perhaps I am mildly spoiled. But I think I’m rather charming with it, don’t you?”

No one laughed. Not even Dad. In fact, he looked rather angry as he demanded, “How many careers do you plan to flit through while living at home and surviving on nothing but the money we give you? Your sisters have moved out, and they work—damned hard—even though they don’t need to. But you went from performing arts, to law school, to teaching. From graphic design to cupcakes to those tiny violins you used to make—”

“I don’t want to talk about the violins,” Eve scowled. She’d quite liked them, but she’d developed a large social media following by filming her musical carpentry. Then various magazines had started writing about her skills, or some such rubbish. When that Russian prodigy had shown up on her doorstep, she’d known things were going too far.

“You don’t want to talk about anything!” Dad exploded. “You dip in and out of professions, then you cut and run. Your mother and I didn’t set up the trust so you girls could become wastes of space,” he said. “We set it up because when I was a boy, I had nothing. And because there are so many situations in life that you’ve no hope of escaping from without a safety net. But what you’re doing, Eve, is abusing your privilege. And I’m disappointed.”

Those words burned, charring her edges with hurt and shame. Her heart began to pound, her pulse rushing loud enough in her ears to drown out Barbra’s comforting beat. She tried to process, to find the right words to explain herself—but the conversation was already racing off without her, a runaway train she’d never been fast enough to catch.

“We have decided,” Mum said, “to cancel your trust fund payments. Whatever savings you have will have to do until you can find a job.”

Savings? Who the bloody hell had savings?

Dad took over. “You can stay here for three months. That should be more than enough time to find a place of your own.”

“Wait—what? You’re throwing me out?”

Mum went on as if Eve hadn’t spoken. “We’ve discussed things, and your father and I would like you to hold down a job for at least a year before we restart your trust fund payments. We know finding decent work might be difficult with such a . . . unique CV, so we’ve lined up positions for you in our own companies.”

Eve jerked back in her seat, her head whirling as she tried to keep up. “But—I already quit law.” And for good reason. Eve had enjoyed law school a disturbing amount, had recognized the warning signs, and had quit before she could sublimate her entire sense of self-worth into her ability to nitpick linguistics around Tort law. She considered that a lucky escape.