Page 36 of Wreck Me
Reaching for the door handle, I opened it and stepped out of the car. My cream colored Jimmy Choo patent leather classic pumps touched the pavers and Bernard reached his hand forward, offering it to me for assistance.
“Hello Miss Donohue, Happy Thanksgiving,” he greeted through gritted teeth as I placed my hand in his and pulled myself from the car, grabbing my clutch from the passenger seat as I did.
Great, something was wrong already. Bernard was practically immune to my father’s behavior, so him being irritated was never a good sign.
Letting go of his hand to adjust my sweater dress, I sighed dramatically, already reverting back to old habits after barely stepping foot on the property. “What do I need to know, Bernard?”
Rounding the car, he popped open my trunk, expecting to grab an overnight bag, but it was empty. His brows furrowed with confusion, and he looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Not staying, Miss Donohue?” He knew damn well I always went into a Thanksgiving food coma after dinner and would stay the night, retreating to my old bedroom where I’d fall asleep, stuffed beyond belief, to a Hallmark Christmas Movie.
Everyone knows as soon as Thanksgiving dinner is finished, it’s immediately Christmas.
Slowly, I shook my head. “No,” I stated simply. “There’s no reason to when I live less than thirty minutes away. I’d prefer my Christmas movie at home this year.”
At home, in my own bed, naked, with Caleb by my side.
I didn’t tell Bernard that though, but as he eyed me skeptically, I could tell he had something he wanted to say but was holding his tongue.
My phone vibrated inside my clutch as I sauntered to the front doors of the eight bedroom, two-story mansion. Unzipping the clutch as I walked, I pulled my phone out, my eyes bouncing over the message I received.
Happy Thanksgiving, Starlight. I hope all the fancy food you eat today is as delicious as you are.
My mother’s shrill screech cut through my inner voice as I read the message, my dopey smile quickly fading as I shoved my phone back in my clutch.
“Isla!” she gushed, sashaying as she walked over to me with her arms open like she gave a shit. “How are you, darling?”
“Fine,” I replied mildly, extending my arms to embrace her in a hug. My mother patted my back the same way someone would pat a dog on the head before pulling away. “How are you, mother?”
“Doing just fine, keeping busy with my garden club and our HOA. Did you hear they appointed me as HOA president now?”
I hadn’t, but it didn’t surprise me one bit. Samantha Donohue took on as many extracurriculars as she could to elevate her social standing.
She always pulled her platinum-dyed hair in a perfect twisted chignon, not a flyaway or frizz in sight, and her makeup was the epitome of flawless–worn day and night. There wasn’t a time I could remember my mother fresh-faced and makeup free. And in true, wealthy housewife fashion, there wasn’t a board or society she didn’t work toward becoming a high-ranking member of, nor a brunch she didn’t attend.
Now, ask me how many important events formeshe’d attended over the years.
“Nope, I hadn’t. How exciting for you.” My tone was bland, but she didn’t notice as she turned on her heel and began telling me every detail about her “stressful journey” to becoming HOA president. I followed her, stepping over the threshold to my childhood house. I inhaled a sharp breath, instantly being transported back in time.
“What good is she, Samantha? I needed a male to carry on my company's legacy. A son. But instead, we have a daughter.”
“Why can’t she? This isn’t the 1950s, Andrew. There is absolutely no reason why Isla can’t receive the same training—”
“You honestly expect a female to be taken seriously in a boardroom full of men?”
“By the time she’s old enough to take over Skyline, there may very well be a woman or two on the board. Won’t that help her? To be taken more seriously?”
The room fell silent, and I pressed my ear against the wall harder, straining to hear the rest of the conversation, but my father had stopped talking. Tears pricked my eyes, my fourteen-year-old heart racing. It didn’t matter how many times they had the same fight, or how many times I had overheard it, it still pierced like a knife through the heart every time my father expressed his disdain. It was bad enough he barely gave me the time of day, but for him to be so open about it…
“And if there isn’t a woman or two on the board?” My father's voice echoed through the wall, questioning my mother's suggestion.
“Then you appoint a few women and accept the fact that you have a daughter, not a son. She’s a bright girl, Andrew. Beautiful, smart. You can train her just as you would have trained a son.”
Pushing off the wall, I stumbled back in the dark, before falling onto the plush down comforter on my bed. I didn’t want to hear anymore. I couldn’t. His hate for me spewed like venom and I hated him for it. I would never take over his stupid company. I would rather die.
Slithering under the covers, I laid on my back, tucking my arms beneath my pillow, and fell asleep crying.
Nausea encircled my stomach and I could feel bile rise in my esophagus, the memory throwing me back into a time where I felt helpless and insecure. My father was never cruel enough to belittle me to my face, but I was confident he knew the walls were thin enough for his voice to carry. He was a smart man.
It had been nearly nine months since I had stepped foot in this house.
