Page 9 of Cruel Dominion

Her lips pulled into a tight-lipped false smile and she turned from me to throw open the light-blocking curtains, making me hiss as too-bright, likely afternoon, sunlight filled my room, burning out my corneas.

“Just this morning,” she replied, coming back to perch on the edge of my bed with nothing less than perfect posture.

The way she said it made it clear she was wondering how long he’d kept the information from her. But she didn’t ask. She wouldn’t.

“I didn’t believe him at first. I wouldn’t unless I saw you myself.”

“And now that you have?”

Her unusually thoughtful green eyes analyzed me. She didn’t say anything about the bruises yet, even though I knew she could see them, especially now in the light.

“An explanation would be nice.”

It wasn’t like we ever had what a normal person might call a strong relationship. But, even taking that into account, I felt I owed it to them to give them something. They were fully within their rights to turn me away, but they didn’t. Mom just brought me breakfast in bed. Never in the seventeen years before I left had she done that. Not once. Not even for a birthday. Not even when I was sick.

“Okay,” I answered tentatively. “What do you want to know? It’s not exactly an enthralling story. I worked. I lived in a mediocre apartment. Had a couple of shitty boyfriends…”

Shitty was putting it nicely. Her gaze fell to the bruises along my collar.

I swallowed.

Don’t ask.

Please don’t ask.

I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Just having her look at what that asshole did to me was pushing back to the verge of tears. Making my stomach feel hollow and chest hot and my fists twist into the plush blankets.

“You can talk to me about it when you’re ready. I know you’ve been through… some trouble recently. Rest. Have some breakfast.”

Some trouble?

I knew that tone. I knew those words. We can talk about it later was always Mom’s go-to. Later always meant never. Back then, it hurt. Now, I was grateful for her complete inability to talk about anything even remotely upsetting.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She patted my knee, gesturing to the tray again. “Eat,” she commanded. “Before it gets cold.”

I hadn’t been hungry when she walked in, but my stomach grumbled as I pulled the tray back onto my lap. There was a plate of fresh fruit, a few strips of crisp bacon, a short stack of mini pancakes, and a selection of other pastries with orange juice and a latte.

“Am I interrupting something?”

My father lurked in the doorway like the oppressive shadow he was, giving my mother a look that might sour the milk in my latte.

Mom stood up, brushing down the front of her slacks. “Nothing at all, dear. I just came to bring our Anna some food.”

My fingers twitched with the childish urge to grab hold of my mom and beg her to stay. I wasn’t ready for the Hudson Vaughn experience.

He nodded to his wife as if they were business partners passing one another in a hallway, entering my room without invitation as she excused herself. Some things would never change. Like my parents’ inability to be in the same room together for more than a few minutes unless it was for the purposes of publicity, putting on a front, or consuming a meal in utter silence.

Mom threw me her best impression of an encouraging smile before she vanished from view.

Hudson Vaughn held a garment bag over his shoulder which he dropped onto the bed near my feet.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a dress. We have a gala this weekend.”

We? I was already expected to be part of ‘we’ again?

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