Page 41 of Mostly Shattered

The words strike me hard in the chest. Astrid may be reserved, and I might complain about her, but she’s said nice things to me over the years. This is different. All I ever wanted was for her to be proud of me as a daughter. Even after I found out she wasn’t my birth mother, I still seek her approval. Now I have it, and all I have to do is give up my future.

I’ve spent my whole life trying to earn her approval. Even now, part of me still craves it. Maybe if I go along with the family’s plans—marry Chester, secure the alliance—she’ll finally look at me like I’m not a disappointment. Maybe she’ll finally see me as something more than just the mortal lovechild she got stuck with raising.

It’s a foolish dream. No matter what I do, I’ll never be enough for her. I’ll never be her true daughter.

“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to say anything else.

She lightly touches my cheek. “And you’ll do something about your hair? The curls are escaping captivity again.”

It’s not a question, but I nod that I understand.

I can’t stop staring at her face, knowing that soon her expression will turn to disappointment. What she’s asking of me is too much. I can’t condemn myself to a life married to Chester.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” I tell her.

“I need to speak to the chef to finalize the menu,” she answers, turning her back to me. Whatever sweet moment that passed between us is over.

I watch her walk away, wondering what my future will hold. I pray it won’t be an arranged marriage. Out of all my fates facing me, that one feels like the worst. At least with an ancient evil, it will be a fast end. The idea of spending the rest of my short, mortal life looking down the dining table at Chester, letting him touch me, thankful that he has his mistresses so I don’t have to spend time with him, putting all my attention into appearances… that’s the real definition of hell.

I head toward my room with renewed purpose. The amulet changed my future once. Maybe it can do it again.

When I enter my bedroom, I find a maid has left the curtains open to let the daylight in. The bed has been made with a fresh comforter and sheets, and my dirty clothes have been picked up off the floor. The pizza box has also disappeared.

I set my coffee on the nightstand before layingthe gown across the bottom of the bed to keep it from wrinkling. I then hurry to change out of my pajama pants into a pair of jeans. I shrug out of the t-shirt, discarding it on the floor only to replace it with another. This one has the word “love” written across the chest in cursive. It does not fit my mood as well as the finger flipping off everybody, but it’s clean and was on top of the pile.

I drop a pair of sneakers next to the bed before kneeling on the carpet to dig the book out from behind my dresser where I hid it. I can’t help but think it’s pathetic that I’m twenty-eight years old and going to run away from home.

Then again, I know there are some who would argue that it’s a little pathetic that I’m twenty-eight and still living in my parents’ home.

Those people can kiss my ass.

The air in the room feels still, too still. I hear a soft scrape. The heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me I didn’t imagine the sound. My attention goes across the room to a framed photograph on my nightstand. It’s of me and Conrad during happier times. A maid must have taken it out of my dresser drawer and put it back. The picture appears to move on its own, the motion so slight I almost miss it.

A chill works up my spine, causing the hairs onthe back of my neck to stand on end. I freeze, stuck with my arm between the wall and the dresser.

“Congratulations are in order.” Conrad’s voice is loud. His energy is up. That’s not a great sign.

I release my hold on the book, leaving it where it is as I withdraw my arm. Touching my earlobe, I ask, “Have you seen my diamond earrings?”

“One of the maids probably stole them,” he answers.

I push up from the floor. He’s standing by the bed, staring at the blue silk gown. His form is more solid than usual. I can barely see through him.

“Lady Chester Freemont,” he mocks. There was a dark, gravelly quality to his voice. He doesn’t sound like he did when he was alive.

“I think the word you’re looking for is Mrs.”

“Ah, come on, don’t sell yourself short. As Lady Astrid Junior, I think you deserve the same made-up title of aristocracy.” He turns toward me, the black pits of his eyes reminding me of the darkness inside of him.

“Let me guess, you’re here to tell me I better not marry into a family so powerful.” Finally, there is one thing we would agree on.

“No,” he says to my surprise. “I want you to marry him. I want to watch you squirm when he comes into the room. I want you to squeeze out his ugly babies. Every time he touches you, I want you toknow that you are trapped in a loveless sham and can never have Paul. And I’m going to be there as your constant companion, watching you grow old and wither.”

“What happened to you to make you so twisted?” I’m not trying to be an asshole. I really want to know. “I loved?—”

“I loved you, Conrad. I loved you, Conrad,” he mocks my voice. “I considered you a brother, Conrad.”

“You’re not funny.”

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