Page 98 of Princess of Pride
Does it hurt to think he could only want my virginity? Yes.
Would being discarded be worth it to get a life of my own? Maybe.
It could be the only way I get out of here.
Do I want to earn his love anyway? I’m not sure.
Maybe I’m afraid to try and suffer rejection along with a severely wounded heart.
I stare at my chest where the organ is buried beneath my ribs and atrocious breast. “How much can you take?”
I’ve always been good at holding myself apart from anything that could damage me. I slipped up with Gabe, but I didn’t love him like I’d thought. What we had compared to what I have with Lachlan seems juvenile and empty. Gabe never gave me anything. Lachlan has given me everything he can under the circumstances.
The realization has me glancing up in the direction of the tower library on the floor above. I’ve read in there three times and even researched opening my bookstore. I talked to his mother about that too, as silly as that sounds. I told her my idea and my vision. In my mind, she gets it and is rooting for me. Nothing is scary or off up there. It’s peaceful and has become my favorite retreat in this massive place.
My silliest idea yet comes to mind. Instead of dismissing it, I exit my room, stroll through Lachlan’s immaculate bedroom,and then open the door to the tower library. Once at the top, I close the door and sit on the recliner.
“Hi, Mrs. Caldwell. It’s me again.” I glance around the curved bookshelves and the window with light trickling in. “I have a favor to ask. Two actually.” I take out my phone and bring up the email. “I need to read something that’s important to me, and I’m nervous. I don’t know how it’s going to make me feel, and I’m not sure if I can do it alone.”
I take in a breath and exhale slowly.
“If you wouldn’t mind being with me right now, I’d really appreciate your company.”
With that, I dig in. The information reads like a report. My mom’s full name was Elora Marie Farina. She was twenty-four when she died. She was also about my height. Unlike my caramel eyes, hers were hazel. She was born in Sanremo, Italy, near the south of France, and her father was Swiss.
Her parents never married. She moved to America with her mom when she was three. Her mom worked in housekeeping for wealthy families in New England. She followed her mom’s line of work after she graduated high school and eventually ended up in Connecticut. She interviewed for the surrogate position with my dad but ended up pregnant with me the natural way.
A sigh of disgust escapes me at what my dad did. But then, I’m imagining him at the age he is now. At the time, he would have been thirty-five. Eleven years older than her. Mom said Dad and her had been in love for the first four years of their marriage until he took a mistress. Was my birth mom that mistress? The woman who ruined it all for Mom, according to her. Dad is the one who ruined it. This is why falling in love is not something I want to do. Lachlan was right. Love does kill. Not in the way he believes, but I agree it kills the spirit.
I open the three pictures attached to the email. One lookslike a job photo of my birth mom. It’s creepy how much we look alike. The next is a full body picture that also looks like it belongs in a job file. She’s standing against a white wall with her hands at her sides wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Her bust is generous, like mine, but her hips aren’t as narrow. She’s a bit more proportioned. The last picture is of her out by the pool of the estate near a large rose bush. It looks like she was smelling or admiring the flowers and someone called her name. She’s smiling and bathed in sun. Her golden hair hangs past her shoulders. She’s in a white dress with her hands under her pregnant belly. It’s barely visible. I wouldn’t have known she was pregnant had she not been holding her belly the way she is. Unlike the other photos, she looks happy, although there’s a sadness in her eyes. Because she was going to give us up—me and my brother? Because she didn’t want to live there any more than my mom wanted her to? Because she knew she hurt my mom? So quickly, I paint my birth mom as the villain. She was the other woman, but did my dad manipulate her like he does so many? Is she a victim of my dad’s controlling nature like my mom, just in a different way? Who took this?
I sit there stewing, my arms crossed, and my brows drawn tight. What kind of life could my birth mom have had if she didn’t fall prey to my dad. Did she fall prey or was she out for more too—for whatever she could get because she needed it?
Where was her mom when she died?
Why didn’t my parents tell me the truth when I was old enough to understand? Did they not trust me to keep their secret? What about my brother? Where is he buried? Where is she buried?
I scan the email. There isn’t much about him other than his premature weight, his name—Everett Garyn Spencer—and here it is... All this time my twin’s ashes were in the backyard among the rose bushes near the woods. We never had manyroses. I assumed they weren’t Mom’s favorite. But the ones we had are on the left side of the house in a place less frequented. A stone bench rests among them and a bird bath fountain is nearby. It’s peaceful, but I never spent a lot of time there. I was always on the other side of the yard near the orangery and where parties are held. This bench is an urn that holds the ashes of my brother and my mom. It’s been their resting place for my entire life. I’ve never been so stunned. My breath hitches and tears burn my eyes. So many times I walked by that place and ignored it. I didn’t even give the roses so much as a glance. I just followed the path that leads to the garage. I gasp. Lachlan and I took that path when we were at the estate. Did they know when I was near? Did they think I was ignoring them?
What about Pippa? Does she know they’re there? Is that why we never had roses in the house? I don’t want them there anymore, and I can’t explain why other than they were mine and we deserve a place of our own.
Creaking draws my gaze to the left. Lachlan stands near the doorway, watching me like he’s been there a while.
“How are you doing?” He approaches me like one would a skittish mouse. He takes in my teary eyes and frowns. “Mo bhana-phrionnsa.”
“What does that mean?”
“My princess.”
I try to smile at the sweet nickname, but my lips don’t cooperate.
“Come here.” He lifts me from the chair then sits, pulling me between his legs, my back against his chest. Holding me close, he clasps his hands under my boobs and kisses my hair. “What can I do?”
I shake my head as more tears fall. “Move them.”
“Move what?”
I’m surprised he could understand me. “My family.” I wipe my nose. “I don’t want their ashes there.”
