Page 39 of She will Always be Mine

The more I think about it, the more appealing it sounds, but then I would remind myself that it’d be at the cost of letting him—my blackmailer—win.

That single thought alone lights a fight inside me.

Besides, I would only be running from my problems, not solving them, and a coward I’m not. I would be leaving Riaan all alone while knowing he will blame himself and I could never be that selfish, cruel, and heartless.

He always told me to fight for the ones I love and I may have broken the promise I made with him once, but never again.

I won’t go down without a fight, even if it leaves me wounded and shattered.

If I go down, it won’t be without the ones who pushed me or crossed me.

I just need to be strong until my time comes.

With a huff, I throw my legs off the bed and sit up, shaking off the dark thoughts. Tying my long hair into a ponytail, I decide to get some warm milk from the kitchen downstairs.

It was one of the old tricks that my mom taught me whenever I couldn’t sleep, especially during the times when I stayed up late studying. Surprisingly enough, it always worked. And right now, I need it more than anything.

Melancholy hits me hard as memories of the past resurfaces. My mom never complained at least once when I used to wake her up as a kid, asking for her help in the kitchen to pour me some warm milk.

How I desperately wish I could turn back time.

Leaving my door ajar, I amble down the dark hallway toward the stairs and avoid pressing too hard on the steps that creak a lot in the dead silence.

I don’t want to mistakenly wake up anyone and risk giving an explanation of why I’m up at two in the morning. Reaching the ground floor, I turn toward the kitchen but pause mid-step when I hear low murmurs.

Nothing but silence greets me so I assume my mind is playing tricks on me.

Clearly, the stress of everything is turning me into a lunatic who gets spooked easily.

Shaking off the absurd feeling, I walk forward again, realizing I really need that glass of milk. Opening the fridge, I take out the milk container and pour some into a saucepan to heat while putting the rest back in the fridge. Once it’s warm, I transfer it into a glass I grabbed from the cabinet, add one tablespoon of sugar, stir it, and then go sit at the dining table.

I pull to a stop with the glass halfway to my mouth when I hear voices again, and this time, it’s a little louder, confirming I didn’t imagine it before. I frown when I realize it’s coming from the direction of my parents’ bedroom which is also downstairs.

Confusion and surprise lines my face as I ponder what they’re doing up so late. It’s not like them to be up so late as they are both early risers.

The right choice would be to give them privacy but when you’re stuck in a series of bad decisions, it’s hard to stop. So, unable to resist satisfying my morbid curiosity, I stand up and follow their voices.

An odd feeling settles underneath my skin and I’m worried they’re having a fight.

Fear paralyses my body because the only reason they could be arguing is if it’s about me, especially after the tension I saw between them at the dinner table earlier. It was very palpable as soon as I sided with Mom.

My stomach bottoms out that maybe she told Dad about Riaan and me. Walking on tiptoes while my heart beats faster with each step, I try to make out what they’re saying, which isn’t that hard since it’s dead of the night and not a soul is awake.

“I told you not to stop taking your meds, Sara,” my dad says roughly.

I expected something about my forbidden crush on Riaan but this is the last thing I expected to hear. Why would Mom need meds all of a sudden? My curiosity is even more piqued now. Whatever it is, it sounds serious.

“And I told you I don’t need them,” she replies in a cold voice, one I have never heard her use with Dad before, making my hackles rise.

Is she sick or are those pills stress related?Because I sense from their tone that it’s not the first time she’s needed them.

I rack my brain for any memories from my childhood that could help me understand and absorb all this, but nothing comes to mind. She’s always been headstrong and cheerful.

The image Dad is painting doesn’t harmonize with the one I’ve known all my life.

I blink back to focus when I hear my dad speak in an angry and worried voice.

“You’re having panic attacks again and your nightmares have become more frequent, yet you have the nerve to be so stubborn,” he states and then softens his voice, “I can’t watch you go through it all again, my love.”

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