Page 29 of On the Line

“Funny,” she quips, taking a small step back, laughing dryly. Readjusting her Birkin in the crook of her elbow, she pinches her lips, ignoring my slight dig, and says, “Get dressed, we need to get you an outfit for tonight.”

My eyebrows dip. “Tonight?”

“It’s your birthday isn’t it?” she says as ifI’mthe one being ridiculous.

“It was on Thursday, Mom …threedays ago. You didn’t even call me,” I say incredulously.

She waves me off. “I was busy planning your party,” she responds flatly as if this justifies her complete lack of motherly instincts.

I hold her gaze, narrowing my eyes. “You really expect me to come to that?” I grit. “I haven’t even been to the house since I moved out five months ago.”

“James, you will not embarrass me in front of ourfriends and family. Youwillattend tonight, and that’s final. Understood?”

We’re at an impasse and we both know it. I chew on my lip while I deliberate, until finally, I let my mother get her way and huff out afineunder my breath.

At least I’ll be getting a new designer dress out of it.

“Good,” she sniffs. Perching her black sunglasses on her nose, she turns for the door. “I’ll wait in the car.”

I addone last touch of peach lip gloss to my lips and take a step back to give myself a final check in the full-length mirror. Spending the day shopping with my mother was a special kind of torture but I can’t deny that the lavender dress I picked out is gorgeous, hugging my lush hips to perfection, my soft stomach supported by the material yet not hidden. The low neckline could have been a little too risqué for a family event but paired with the ethereal-looking open sleeves, it balances out. Plus, the long leg slit up my right thigh shows off the Valentino chunky heels my mother insisted I get.

I didn’t put up much of a fight.

Although, two parts of me now war against each other: The one who’s relieved to be back in designer clothes. And the other, who wants to sell the dress and shoes after the party for some extra cash.

I genuinely don’t know who will win.

Being back in my old bedroom is another form of torment. It’s as if I’ve become unaccustomed to such decadence. My four-poster bed near the large arched windows feels goading, the pristine walls delightfully decorated in soft pastels have somehow become judgmental.

Everything feels askew, like I shifted dimensions when I moved out. If I squint my eyes, I can almost see the ghost of my past self still haunting these walls. I barely recognize who I used to be. My priorities have drastically changed. What I thought was important—the picture-perfect image I tried so hard to uphold—now feels inconsequential.

Especially as Zachary Benjamin’s girlfriend, and future wife, the sole heir of the Garret empire. The social status alone was worth turning a blind eye to his abusive behavior.

Not anymore.

Now, he feels like a rotting corpse I’ve desperately been trying to pretend isn’t putrefied, poisoning everything it touches the longer I try to drag it around my new life.

The thought of being single terrifies me, though. I’ve always measured my self-worth by everyone else but me. First, I was my parent’s daughter. Then, I became Zachary’s girlfriend. Who am I without those labels? Who am I when all that’s left is me?

But the thought of staying with him is equally terrifying. I know that breaking up with him will lead to an explosive reaction on his part, which leaves my skin clammy and my breath short at the thought—but I know what needs to happen.

I need to end it.

It’s hard to explain why my birthday was the breaking point. What was so different from all the other times Zachary has treated me like shit? I just don’t believe these types of decisions call for rational thought.

It’s about this sense ofknowing, and finally having the strength to act on it.

Except…

Zachary’s been MIA since I told him to leave Orso three days ago.

It’s not that unusual for him to ghost me after one of our fights, but the anticipation is killing me. I want out. I have a suspicion he might be here today, for appearance’s sake, but I hope that he won’t be.

It wouldn’t be the right time for the conversation we need to have anyhow.

I can hear the classical music from the live band gently rise up to my second-floor window, accompanied by soft and polite laughter. The party is taking place on the garden grounds, and I’m sure it’s a charming and delightful affair if my mother is behind it.

I sigh, knowing I can’t avoid the inevitable. Fixing a few flyaways back into my braided updo, I grab my clutch, throw my lipgloss inside, and finally leave the bedroom.

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