Page 7 of Hell Hath No Fury

Maybe we are fucking trouble, but part of me is starting to accept that maybe trouble is exactly what we both need at this point.

Feeling much better about the entire situation, I join them at the table, taking a seat between Agatha and Carolina before turning my attention to Camilla. “Now, tell me the plan.”

4

Agatha 1, Lilith 0

Lilith

Thatno-goodmotherfucker.

Of all the words that could have fallen from his lips, that is not something that ever would have crossed my mind. And to say it threw me for a loop is a serious damn understatement.

Not being the type of woman who gets flustered by the antics of men, I have legitimate concerns about how this is gonna pan out.

Even now, hours later, while sitting in a windowless van a few blocks from where Camilla is meeting Antoinette, it still keeps running through my mind.

And I don’t like it one bit.

Our history is painfully complicated, and to have Antoinette as a constant reminder of our past only brings home the dark truths that we likely can no longer continue to hide from. Not if we both expect to have a relationship with her once things get back to normal and certainly not if he’s going to switch tactics intosomething as disconcerting as fucking playful. Antonio is a lot of things, but boyishly playful isn’t one of them.

Agatha’s elbow in my side draws me from my thoughts, and I glare at her, earning another laugh.

Because she’s obviously a no-good fucking traitor.

“Those messages were from you, weren’t they?” I ask flippantly, even though I know for a fact they must have been her.

The little bitch.

Agatha smiles at me smugly and then replies, “Well, someone had to do something. Lord knows the two of you were gonna dance around the many elephants in the room until you’re both in the fucking grave.”

“I still don’t see why there’s anything to talk about. The past is the past, and you can’t change it.”

Agatha sighs and rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re the first person to tell me that you should never allow your past to dictate your future decisions. And until the two of you work out your past, you’ll never be able to figure out your future together.”

“Together?” I whisper shout. “There is no fucking together, Aggie.”

Once again, she rolls her eyes at me, and this time, she snorts but doesn’t say anything. We stare at each other for a few long moments, then eventually, I add, “Would you fucking cut it out.”

“Not a fuckin’ chance. He’s too uncertain of what happened in the past to do anything, and you’re too fuckin’ stubborn and stupid to take the initiative and put him out of his misery.”

“I don’t know why I should have to tell him anything. He was there.”

She gives me a dirty look, and I blink at her a few times, refusing to give in easily because she’s correct; I’m stupidly stubborn. After a long pause, she leans in close to me, her words a stern whisper, “I’m gonna pretend for a moment thatyou didn’t just say what you fuckin’ said to me and give you the benefit of the doubt that maybe you’re not so twisted and fucked up that you would truly believe any of that bullshit. So, I’m gonna say one thing, and then we’re gonna abandon this conversation for the foreseeable future.”

She stops speaking and stares at me intently, waiting until I’m adequately uncomfortable before adding, “Before you have that much-needed, long overdue conversation with Antonio, think long and hard about the initial scenario and decades-long repercussions needing to be discussed. You’re only going to get one chance at this, so don’t fuck it up based on your insecurities and inability to accept responsibility for the overall duplicitousness of the situation. Because even though you yourself are not to blame, that doesn’t mean he is either.”

There have been very few times in my life where I’ve felt shame. And out of those few times, only a handful would have been attributed to my own behavior. But this is one of those times.

And I know Agatha means well. If anyone was ever going to call me out onto the carpet for my own possible bad behavior, it would be her, and rightly so, given the evolution of our mother-daughter relationship.

My breath catches in my throat, my gaze lowering until I’m looking at my hands, now clasped in my lap. Then her hand is on top of mine, and she stoops over, forcing me to meet her gaze again. “Sometimes, a chronic wound can’t heal until you rip it open wide enough to allow the old hurts and bitterness to escape.”

She squeezes my hand again before pulling away, her lips curved up in a small smile. Meanwhile, I blink back the burning behind my eyes as she turns away, allowing me a few moments to collect myself.

I want to deny everything she’s saying to me. I want to argue, debate, and explain to her explicitly how full of shit she is.

But I also know that it would be a lie.

---