Page 41 of Pucking Billionaire

Richard pulls over, and I don’t stop him, though I should.

Instead, I get out and look her over, my heart squeezing painfully.

Mother looks so terrible that her “before” and “after” photos could be used for an anti-drug campaign.

“Agápi_ mou,” she says, making my heart squeeze even harder.

“Hello, Eleni,” I say.

She chuckles bitterly. “No more ‘Mama,’ huh?”

“How did you find me?” She’s one of the two reasons I don’t do social media, the other one being Rupert.

When she frowns, I realize most of her wrinkles are frown-specific, and almost none show that a smile has ever touched her features.

“How did I find you?” She snorts. “You make it sound like you didn’t want to be found by your own mother.”

Where do I even start? “I know about Dad. I know he didn’t actually abandon me. That you made up that whole thing.”

She narrows her eyes at me, and just as with the frown, you can tell this is something she’s done often enough to leave permanent grooves in her face. “I’m ‘Eleni’ and he’s ‘Dad’ all of a sudden? That malákas was a domineering control freak, and I’m happy he’s dead!”

I blow out a frustrated breath. I mean, what did I expect she would say? Still, I feel compelled to try. “Controlling? Is that because he asked you to check into rehab?”

She flattens her lips. “He also told me what to wear and how to speak.”

Translation: he probably asked her not to dress like a street walker and curse like a sailor on Odysseus’s ship.

I sigh, deeply. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you.”

I spin in place. “There. You saw me. Bye.”

She bristles. “Aren’t you going to invite me into your new mansion?”

“I can’t,” I say gently. “You know that. I can’t be your enabler any longer.”

Her chin quivers in a perfect imitation of Claire Danes. “So you’ll leave me to starve on the street?”

“Eleni… Mom…” I drag in a breath. “How about another rehab? I’ll pay for it. Just choose the best one. It’ll be like staying at a resort—all your needs taken care of.”

She lets loose every Greek curse I’ve ever heard and some I haven’t, culminating in a very English “ungrateful bitch.”

It takes everything I have to maintain my cool. “That is my best and final offer,” I say evenly when she’s finished. “When you’re ready to accept it, let me know.”

And with that, I get back into the car and tell Richard to get me home, fighting tears the entire time.

Even as far back as six hundred years BC, the Ancient Greeks noticed that the moods of patients improved whenever there were horses around. This is how the concept of pet therapy started, but I doubt anyone has used giant tortoises in such a capacity before me. Unless Dad did? Either way, today is a rare day where I don’t catch Donatello, April, and Dr. Kelpcon mid-coitus, and I find that watching them graze on the grass—just the tortoises, not Dr. Kelpcon—is extremely soothing, which is exactly what I need after the encounter with my mother.

Eventually, I’m calm enough to study for my upcoming finals and even finish a couple of papers.

When my studies are complete, I reward myself by playing a video game on the giant screen of my private movie theater. The game in question is Assassin's Creed Valhalla. In it, I play a Viking who unapologetically raids towns, kills hordes of people, and slowly expands her influence over Ancient Britain.

You know, exactly the kind of game a pacifist like me should be playing.

I’m just meeting Ivarr (one of the more bloodthirsty sons of Ragnar) for the first time when Effie walks in with my dinner, bowing in that way that must’ve been drilled into her at the Hogwarts School of Butlery.

“Ah,” she says. “You’re about to look for King Burgred.”

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