Page 68 of Princess of Pride
“I won’t tell.” The words rattle from my throat. I tense, bracing for the truth, knowing it will tear at me in a way I’ve never been hurt before. I’m already hurting.
“Her name was Elora.”
Was?
“Mom couldn’t have any more pregnancies after she had me. Dad wanted a son. Divorce isn’t an option for him, you know this. They considered a surrogate and did interviews. One lady caught Dad’s eye. They developed a relationship and had an affair. She got pregnant, and Dad set her up in a house nearby. He spoiled her. Mom was devastated.”
My heart aches for Mom, and more tears sting my eyes.
“Elora found out she was pregnant with twins—a boy and a girl—but she suffered preeclampsia. You were born premature and barely made it. Your brother lived for two weeks, and Elora died after giving birth.”
My stomach hits the floor. I had a brother, a twin. My birth mom is dead. My mom isn’t my real mom. Pippa is my half-sister.
“Are you there?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.” I can’t quite think clearly yet. My elbow rests on the desk, my forehead in my hand.
“You can’t tell anyone about this. Promise you won’t, Emery.” Her tone borders on scolding.
“How do you know about it? Who told you?Whendid they tell you?”
“Dad brought Elora to the house and had her set up in a guest room when she was ordered on bedrest. I was young, butI remember her, the woman Mother cried over every night while drowning her sorrows in wine.”
So I am the reason Mom started drinking. A sob builds inside me. I fight it.
“When Elora died and then Everett, your twin, Dad forbade us to talk about them. No one was allowed to bring them up. We had to pretend they never existed and pretend you were… Mom’s.”
I’m going to be sick. Bile climbs up my throat as I turn and heave acids into the nearby trashcan.
“Jesus, Emery. Get it together. Are you alone? Can anyone see you? Can Lachlan?”
I wipe my mouth and give a weak laugh. Even if he could see me, he wouldn’t care.
“I have to go,” I murmur between tears.
“If you tell anyone, I swear to God, Emery?—”
I end the call and drag myself into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and rinse my mouth. My skin is blotchy, my eyes bloodshot, and my nose red. My family is a mess because of me. I don’t belong. I never did. No wonder they all despise me. I ruined them. Mom had to live with me and pretend I was hers when I belonged to a woman she despised. That’s why she said he loved her, and she gave him what she couldn’t.
Another sob rips from me and my throat closes up like there’s not enough oxygen in the room.
I glance at the ocean and rough waves desperate to be out there. My feet move, shuffling me from the room, as if they have a mind of their own. I enter Lachlan’s bedroom. He’s not here. My hand grips the knob, then I’m in the hallway, my brain in a fog as my legs keep carrying me forward. Mindlessly, I take the stairs down and down and down as if I’m floating. On the groundfloor, a housekeeper spots me and gasps. Concern fills her eyes.
“Outside,” I say through my tight throat, my hand rubbing my neck frantically. “Outside. Please.”
She glances around in search of someone else to help or to give her orders.
I turn right and follow the hallway in search of an exit myself, struggling for the oxygen I can’t seem to get.
She passes me and waves for me to follow. “Down here.”
She turns left and opens a door that leads to an orangery with a glass roof. Plants and flowers are everywhere, and the scent of orange fills my nose. It reminds me of home. A bigger sob wrenches from me, and I almost buckle over.
“Ms? Ms?” The woman holds a door open on the left. A salty breeze sweeps through the orangery. I rush toward her and burst onto a stone patio lined with a low wall. Wind whips at my hair and skin. I draw in a breath and fill my lungs with ocean air. It’s not enough. My heart feels like cracked stone. Tears streak my cheeks as I race toward the narrow peninsula at the edge of the cliffs. The one I saw from my bedroom.
Chilly wind pushes against me as if trying to slow my steps. My hair twists in my face. I fight to secure the strands behind my ears and have to hold one side flat to my head so I can see where I’m going. Waves slam into the rocks below with colossal force. I could probably balance on my toes at the edge and the wind alone would keep me from toppling over.
The fierceness of it feels good, the beating deserved. I didn’t ask to be born from another woman or born at all. I don’t want to be the bastard child that tore my family apart and sent my depressed mom to the bottle for numbness. Why couldn’t I have just been hers?
