Page 23 of The Muse
“You know that the feud between our families goes back generations, Landon. I didn’t think I needed to explain that any further.”
“No. But one day, it would be enlightening to understand what really started all of this. I have no problem disliking Scott Foxton. He’s a weasel of a man, and after what he wrote about Persephone, I ought to fire the son of a bitch. But this didn’t start with him.”
“No. It did not. But enough of this. You’ll be late.”
Movement has me dashing for the stairs and I race to the safety of my bedroom. My heart thrums in my chest as I wait to see if my eavesdropping was noticed. Although, why would they care? They didn’t say anything overly confidential.
Guilt rises up from the pit of my stomach, leaving a giant chasm in its wake. I feel sick. Physically sick at what this knowledge means.
More lies.
More secrets.
More deceit.
~
The soak in the bath gives me time for my body to unwind and my mind to calm. It's always an indulgence I fight to make time for. The tiny bathtubs at the Royal Ballet weren’t the most comfortable—especially when I've been brought up used to an extravagant roll top, claw-footed bath.
I lift my leg and let the bubbles run down before inspecting my feet. There’s certainly been more damage in the past, but it all looks like it’s healing well. It’s been years since my feet have been blister, plaster or blood free, but I've grown used to it now.
My fingers are wrinkled and the water tepid before I get out. The fluffy robe is as soft as ever and I go back into the bedroom. Slumping down on my bed, I stretch back and stare at the ceiling. Scott told me to call when I was home, but after overhearing my brother and father, the urgency has slipped. Instead, I fire off a quick text. He's working, anyway, and it sounded like Landon was meeting him from that conversation I overheard.
Hey! Home. Hope you don’t have to work too hard. I really enjoyed last night.
Of course, he doesn’t know he's meeting with my older brother. Just like he doesn’t know my real name or who I am.
My legs pull up under me as I wonder how I got into such a mess so quickly.
His return text finally comes in.
Good.
That’s it. Nothing else.
Not overly fond of the monosyllabic response, I reply.
Good? Anything else you want to add to that?
No.
Lovely. The arsehole is back, I see.
I pout for a little while before finding something to change into, hoping to put his rather clipped messages out of my mind. Of course, that’s easier said than done. I don’t want him to be clipped with me. He told me to call, so perhaps I should and perhaps that’s what he’s in a mood about.
Still in my robe, I call him, but the phone rings out to voicemail.
“Hey, Scott. I thought we could um… well, you said to call about arranging something. Call me when you’re free.”
I end the call and close my eyes in mortification at the ridiculous message I've left. I must have sounded like a twelve-year-old.
There’s no way I can stay in my room and just wait until he calls. God, what if he doesn’t call. What if all of this was just him wanting to get me to bed, and that’s it?
Please tell me you’re not busy?
I text Ivy, hoping that she can distract me from my stupid girliness.
I have a meeting at three, but I’m free until then. Are you at home?
