Page 4 of The Stranger
In one photo, she’s sitting on Kayne’s lap, whilst his large hands firmly cup her ample bikini-clad double-D bosom—they were a graduation gift from my parents. At her request, I might add.
I got a ten-year-old Mazda when I finished high school, but I’m not complaining. It was cheaper and far more practical than a set of new boobs.
My parents aren’t rich by any means, so I was grateful. The car has served me well and gets me from A to B most of the time. It’s currently sitting in the driveway unregistered, though—due to my limited funds—but as soon as I can get some money behind me again, she’ll be back on the road.
We may have grown up in the same house, but Abigail and I are from two different worlds and have never been close—despite my countless attempts to form a bond with her. That being said, I never expected something like this from her. I’m still struggling to wrap my head around what she’s done.
She’s even more cold-hearted and calculated than I ever let myself believe. She can have any guy she wants, but naturally, she’d rather mine.
Kayne isn’t innocent in this scenario either. He’s a dirty, rotten snake. He constantly whined about what a bitch my sister was over the four years we were together, but I guess that wasn’t enough to stop him from sticking his dick in her.
Sniffling, I use the sleeve of my pyjama top to wipe the tears from my eyes, and as I’m attempting to log out of Facebook—while seriously thinking about deleting my account—I get a friend request notification.
“Dear God, please don’t let it be from Spencer Prescott,” I whisper into the darkness. I’ve already humiliated myself in front of that man.
He was the one part of the equation I neglected to think out properly when I made the irrational decision to put up that ridiculous status. I had one goal in mind, and that was to make my sister jealous.
I tentatively click on the request, only to find something far worse than I feared … it’s not from him, it’s from Eloise Prescott … his mother.
Violently tossing myself back onto the mattress, I pick up the pillow from my bed and cover my face with it, screaming into the fabric. My parents are still asleep, and the last thing I want to do is wake them. They’re only going to tell me to suck it up, move on with my life, and let my sister be happy.
With my fucking fiancé!
I once treasured this family unit, but I’m now left pondering if I even want to be a part of this madness.
Yes, my sister is a manipulating C U Next Tuesday, and like me, my parents have been subjected to years of her manipulation and conditioning, but come on, where is my shoulder to cry on … my fucking cheer squad?
I should be able to sit at the kitchen table and cry, scream, and drown in a glass of wine—or twenty—while my mother consoles me and my father heads out to his garden shed to sharpen the prongs on his pitchfork.
They weren’t exactly pleased when I first came home a blubbering mess, but after speaking with the devil herself, they said they could see both sides of the story. Are you kidding me? Your eldest daughter is a fiancé-stealing, two-bit dirty hoe. End. Of. Story.
Kayne’s parents weren’t much better. Their only child couldn’t do any wrong in their eyes, and they had the audacity to tell me,“He mustn’t have been happy with you, Delilah. If he had, he wouldn’t have felt the need to look elsewhere.”Where were their bible-bashing values when their son committed adultery?
The past month has been hell. I feel like I’m living in some kind of alternate universe. One where everybody I once held dear is now suddenly my enemy.
In all fairness, Kayne probably didn’t stand a chance once my sister set her sights on him. When Abigail St. James wants something, she gets it.
I’m the innocent party here, the person who has been wronged in the worst possible way, but I’m left feeling like the problem. In the deepest depths of my soul, I know I’m not the bad guy. Why couldn’t the people who mattered to me most see that?
Puffing out a breath of air, I sit up and look down atmy screen again. It’s time to face the music with Mrs Prescott. The sooner I sort this shit out, the quicker I can put it behind me and move on.
It’s not like my day could get any worse, right?
I side-eye the chauffeur who picked me up in the black limousine thirty minutes ago, as I follow him into the fancy downtown restaurant with so much trepidation my hands are trembling by my sides. What was I thinking? I can’t believe I agreed to this. Being here is liable to make this already-messy situation … messier, but in the brief exchange I had with Spencer’s mother via Messenger, I quickly realised Eloise Prescott can be very persuasive.
Has she brought me here to vet me? Is she going to rake me over the coals once she learns the truth? It would’ve been a lot safer for me to make my confession via a keyboard, rather than face-to-face.
“Mrs Prescott,” the chauffeur says, coming to a stop in front of one of the private tables in the rear of the restaurant, “I collected Miss St. James as you requested.”
“Thank you, Jamison.”
I have yet to lay eyes on the woman since I’m currently hiding behind her driver like a coward.
I swallow thickly when he takes a step to the side, revealing me from my hiding spot. I’m nibbling on my lower lip, and my eyes are wide, like a deer caught in the headlights.
Eloise Prescott is not at all like I imagined. Well, if I’m being honest, I never really imagined anything where she’s concerned … except maybe why she was so insistent that we meet.
She’s stunning, though, with her flawless skin and a stylish dark bob. Her hair is so shiny it gleams under the lighting. You only have to look at her son to know he was created from the finest gene pool, but I’m surprised by how young she looks, considering she is the mother of a grown man. She could easily pass as her son’s older sister.
