Page 6 of Deranged Imposter

“Mom,” I answer as I look over her shoulder at a group of women speaking to each other behind their manicured hands.

I lost count of how many introduced themselves as potential partners, and shortly after, their individualism blends like a painter’s cup of murky paint-rinse water.

“Not again,” I whisper.

“I wouldn’t be meddling if you put effort into my Isabella.”

My breath fans over my bottom lip in a taunting manner as she blinks expectantly. It’s there, thin waves of discomfort trickling through a small tear in the back of my mind—fucking ridiculous.

“Yours?” My senses clatter as the baroque harmony transitions to a new melody.

“Are you jealous of your own mother?” she grills, incredulous, and crosses her arms over her chest. “It pains me to see you two dance around each other.”

“And I’m the one who suffers from the endless gatherings,” I retort, scanning the room for an escape.

Isa has the nerve to skip the event she duped me into attending. She convinced my mother, and how she did it is a closely guarded secret Isa keeps to her heart.

“You can just let me handle it,” I suggest offhandedly, knowing it’ll go over her head.

She waits until a couple leaves her sight to roll her eyes. “I will be an angel by the time you make asuccessfulmove.”

My mother has been hinting, pestering, and outright demanding I put a ring on Isa’s finger before another man does. I fail to see how anyone can get close to her with me melding myself to every patch of her skin.

I’m confident I can obliterate men’s interest in her with a stern talk.

She purses her lips to even out her lipstick. “Until you do, these women will be available. Now, don’t sulk. Be a gentleman and interact.”

“A last-minute notice will do that to me,” I carp, terse.

The chandelier beams off the grand champagne tower, but the lights don’t reach my irritation.

This is not my envisioned evening.

I was prepared to interrogate Isa about her trip in the morning, especially the two dolts who got together with the two women in her project group. I want to know if they made any moves on her and if she reciprocated the flirtatious acts.

“She didn’t tell you?” My mother’s eyebrows climb higher on her forehead, hilarity spinning in her eyes.

I simply stare, used to her antics. My motherandIsa’s. “Would I be here if she did?”

“Since you’re already here, humor me,” she hounds as she snatches a glass of champagne from the passing waiter.

That’s signing up for trouble.

“I only have thirty minutes to spare before her dormitory locks for the night.” We wouldn’t make it back to the dorm without a two-hour car ride.

“Oh? You have plans after?” she pries.

I fight the urge to rush up the stairs to my old bedroom and drag Isa back to the dorm, where I have privacy to bask in her attention.

“No, but she’s in trouble.”

There will be a very long and pressingtalk. I don’t yell at her, and nothing can get me to start either. She’s in tune with my wants, and she’ll stop conspiring with my mother if it makes me upset.

I’m Isa’s favorite.

Rather than irked, it feels more bothersome to entertain women when I have no intention of sparing them one glance if it wasn’t for my mother’s meddling.

“Ladies don’t like despotic men.”

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