Page 17 of Bossy Bodyguard

“Em? Is everything okay?”

I glanced between Caleb, my friends, and the floor before looking at them again.

“My mother... she’s dead.”

“It’s not black enough,” I said, examining my nails. The nail salon artist paused and looked at me with wide eyes. I smiled tightly and stood up from the stool. “It’s fine. You can leave.”

Turns out even the blackest of the black nail polish didn’t suit the ‘It’s my mom’s funereal and I really need to seem sad and pathetic’ look.

She nodded, scampering to pack the nail paint, filer and acrylics. The scent of acetone was too stifling in the room. I left one of the many sitting rooms, my heels clicking against the marble floor.

The house didn’t look different. There was an air of grief and caution. I had to clench my hands in a fist to stop myself from snapping at any house staff who kept staring at me with concerned looks. Why were they concerned about me? They shouldn’t be concerned. I was fine. I was perfectly... fine.

“Emma.”

I sighed in relief when Mia walked through the main door in a black dress. Her hands were cold when they touched mine. “How are you doing?” Her hazel-green eyes were full of worry. Her dad and James gave me a solemn look before disappearing into the house.

Mother’s funeral included people like her. Her co-stars, directors she worked and slept with, and their rich sons and daughters crying over the casket. It made me sick that the people who barely knew her for months were crying over the loss that only I and Damon could feel.

But I wouldn’t put it past my brother to feel anything but a sense of relief, now that he was half the owner of her will, which would be announced later that day.

“She looks like she needs some Jell-O shots or six large cups of coffee,” Summer drawled, walking over and pursing her lips as she looked over my attire.

I glanced down at the tight-fitting black dress. “What?” I asked her, “Is Valentino too much for my mother’s funeral?”

Summer and Mia picked up a stem of wine glass. “You look stunning. Those red lips, winged eyeliner and dress are giving serious Maleficent vibes…” Mia gave her a look, so she added, “Only if your hair wasn’t blonde.”

“Thank you.” I flicked my hair over my shoulder and took a deep breath before walking into the main hall where everything was cleared up to place the coffin with mom’s large photo.

Everyone glanced at me as I walked to the front, clenching my hand to keep my poker face. My heels echoed in the silent room and I knew if mom was here, she would have loved it, with one of her rare smirks as she took a sip of wine.

My eyes met hers in the frame as I sat down on the plush chair with my back straight. Her hair was blonde and short, curled in soft waves as her sultry green eyes looked at the camera, fluttering her lashes. Even from a picture, I was awed by her beauty. Her act and elegance. I could never be like her. I knew that since the day I was born.

Somehow, even she knew that.

The only things I got from my mother were the blonde hair, symmetrical face, and stubbornness. While she was thin and lithe, like a bird, I was curved with wider hips and an ample chest. I never wanted to be like her. I should be glad. I should be glad… but my heart ached because Dorothy Moore didn’t deserve to die all alone in her private plane.

“That was quite an entrance.” My spine straightened when Damon sat beside me. I flickered my eyes at his sharp profile. Dark blond hair and grey eyes.

“You’re late,” I replied when the pastor started speaking, nerves making my stomach clench.

I looked ahead when he turned towards me. “We need to talk to lawyers after the funeral,” he murmured, crossing his arms and leaning back on the chair as my chest tightened with a rare emotion I never felt.

A need to be comforted.

I mentally scoffed at the thought. As if Damon Grant had any emotion in his tall body. He was more of a stranger than my own brother. We had never gotten along. He had kept our father’s last name because he despised mother for the same reason he despised me… my existence. And he never missed a chance to let me forget about my mistake of being born into the family.

I swallowed the lump in my throat when the prayer was over. I had to step up and speak a few words about mother. I looked at her pale face in the coffin and bile rose in my throat.

My lips felt numb. I couldn’t do it. Her chest wasn’t moving… she wasn’t breathing. My eyes blurred, and I didn’t know what I would speak about.

How she starved me? Locked me up? Pinched me? Hit me? Dug her nails in my skin and scolded me with her sly grin until I sat straight and never cried again? How she pretended I didn’t exist?

“Emma.”

The sharp voice of my brother pulled me out of my inner turmoil. I met his eyes and saw my own mother glaring at me.

I hated it.

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