Page 97 of Sinful Sacrifice

“You think Cernach’s deal doesn’t have strings attached?” It has more than strings. It has a metal chain, a block tied to her ankle, and he’ll be at the top, playing puppeteer.

“Cernach is family.”

“He’s a manipulator. You’ve told me that yourself all my life.”

“We’ve already signed the documents. The space is mine, and we start moving in next week. We need to sit down and draw up a class schedule for you since you’ll teach most of them. My arthritis acts up too much for me to do more than two a week.”

It’s like nothing I said registered.

“I’m not working anywhere Cernach-related,” I say. “Damien is opening a studio for me. That’s my plan.”

“Are you kidding me?” she screams. “I’m telling you right now, if you open a dance studio even remotely near here, I’ll never forgive you. I am your family, your mother. Are you really going to take something like this away from me?”

Tears form in my eyes, and my voice cracks. “Mom?—”

“I thought you’d be happy for me getting a new studio. I’m trusting my brother will do right by me. He’s apologized for hurting me in the past, and we’ve moved past our issues. We can trust him, Pippa. Tell your boyfriend we don’t need his help. If you open your own studio, I’ll have no choice but to see it as a betrayal. We’ll talk later. Bye.” She hangs up without letting me get a word in.

Wow.

She sounds so much like the Koglins.

My mother is reverting to her roots, forgetting they’re full of decay.

I roughly slide my phone along the island and drag my hand through my wet hair.

“Fuck that,” I hear from behind me.

I spin around in the stool to find Emilio staring in my direction. He hardly talks to me. Sometimes, I forget he’s even here.

“Fuck what?” I ask.

He lowers his phone, his dark brows furrowing. “Your mom and that guilt-trip shit. She’s wrong. If shit doesn’t work out with you and Damien, he’d never take anything from you. That’s not the type of man he is.”

This is probably the most personal conversation we’ve ever shared. As annoyed as I am that he eavesdropped on my call—well, not exactly eavesdropped since I did have it on speaker—it’s nice to hear someone confirm my feelings are valid.

She’s guilt-tripping me.

I gulp, a tear sliding down my cheek.

The problem is, it’ll work.

There’s this sense of loyalty that will never allow me to leave my family behind—even if it means surrendering my dreams and my happiness.

I’m still in my pajamas when Damien gets home.

I called off work and have been sitting in self-pity all day. My phone sits on the counter with ten missed calls and four texts from my mom. Even though I don’t want to ignore them, eventually, I’ll read and reply.

It’s what I always do.

I must’ve looked super pathetic after my call with her because Emilio ordered us lunch and even watched a movie with me.

“Good news,” Damien says, dropping a manila folder, papers stacked inside, next to me on the island.

“What are those?”

“Possible locations for your studio.”

I stare at the folder like it’s toxic, like it’s what poisoned my dreams. Not my family.

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