Page 23 of Beautiful Delusions

I don’t think we’ve done too badly, Jazzie scoffs in my ears. Batting her away with a swish of my hair, I lock myself back into the conversation Isabella is having with an eccentric artist. Her gaze is appreciative and curious of both him and his artwork. His hair is half green, half purple, split directly down the center and his face holds multiple piercings. He smiles wide through the gap in his front teeth and talks animatedly about his clay model.

“It’s a true representation of the fight for freedom against those who refuse to question the conceptualism of normality,” he beams. Isabella seems to be hanging off his every word, while Mason and his boys have to walk away to hide their sniggers. I raise a brow at the sculpture. It’s a giant cock, the length and girth of my arm, trapped within a cage of barbed wire. The longer I look, the more I can appreciate how the spokes appear to be pushing into the flesh with realistic indents. It’s the bead of precum seeping from the end I’m not sure about.

“Wow, thank you, my dear,” Isabella shakes his hand for the second time. Winding her arm in mine, unknowingly brushing over my scar, she guides me away whilst beckoning a second glass of champagne from the waiter. “What a load of bollocks,” she mutters into my ear as I take a sip. I spray my drink, choking slightly. “If you’re into torture play, just say that.” My eyes widen while Isabella’s sparkle. She winks at me, and we move on. We stop at the next piece, an installation made from recycled plastic bottles.

“What do you think of this one, Sophia?” the actress waves her hand to the turtle’s outline. I study the piece, but my thoughts are elsewhere, my eyes darting around the room, searching for any sign of my mother.

“It's nice,” I reply absentmindedly, barely registering the bold colors and intricate details weaved into the plastic. Theboys have fully abandoned us now, but I can still hear their laughter from across the hall. Fuck knows what they’ve found now.

“By the way, I wanted to tell you how glad I am that the boys have chosen you as their pet,” Isabella says casually as if discussing the weather. I still, eyes widening as I stare at her.

“You know about that?” My throat goes dry.

“Of course,” she laughs, her eyes crinkling with warmth. "The boys are very open with us about their antics. For years after we’d adopted them as children, we attended family therapy twice a week. Communication is key in forming a trusting foundation." She nods knowingly.

“And it does bother you? That they, you know, share one lover for a semester at a time?” I keep my voice low, not wanting to attract attention. We don’t interact with the art students often, since their studios are on the far side of the campus and we work on opposite timetables, but they will still be very aware of the Pet Internship Program. Isabella shifts to wind her arm around my shoulders, saving me further discomfort by speaking into my ear.

“If you’d seen them the way I had, you’d understand. Not every relationship needs to be conventional to make sense.” She glances over, spotting the boys and their father snickering at some private joke. The love between them is palpable, and I can't help but feel a pang of envy.

“We welcomed them into a mansion, and gave them lives they could have only dreamed of. But every night, we’d hear the scuffing of feet down the hall, and each morning found them sharing one bed. It got to the point where one refused any special treatment without the others receiving it, even on their own birthdays. To be quite honest with you, I’d started to worry I’d have a very different legal problem on my hands. The internship they’ve created, it’s another way of keeping them connected.”

Isabella breathes a sigh of relief as my mind trips over itself. A different legal problem–as in, her adoptive sons forming a sexual relationship with each other? I can’t even imagine what kind of implications that would have on their celebrity status.

“Is that why–” I blurt, catching myself. Isabella’s gaze shifts to mine, and she nods for me to speak freely. “Is that why you’re marrying Lucas off after graduation?” My cheeks burn, but I need to know. If Isabella and Mason are so understanding of their sons' need to be connected, why would they try to sever it so harshly? Isabella’s smile takes on a sad edge.

“We’ve only ever wanted what’s best for our boys,” she says softly. We arrive at the next painting, a gigantic canvas of erupting color. Each vibrant stroke is chaotic, smeared layers from a palette knife creating a tacky texture against the smooth background. I forget to blink.

“Wow.”

“You like this one?” Isabella watches me quizzically. The artist is a short girl, barely five feet. She watches me, too, drinking in my response to her piece. The smudge of purple on her cheek would suggest she was working on it right up until the show began. I can sense that in the painting; how she gave herself to the paint and, in turn, has given me a spectacle to lose myself in. I remember to nod at Isabella’s question.

“This one is my favorite by far. I imagine…It’s what the inside of my brain looks like.” Snapping out of my spell, I realize I just said that out loud. My cheeks heat instantly, and I try to retract myself from the arm Isabella has loosely draped around my back. Fuck, she must think I’m a nutcase. But instead of concern, her eyes meet mine, and she smiles warmly, embracing me with understanding.

“My boys are lucky to have you, Sophia.” Before I can respond, the doors to the canteen are announced as open, andthe crowd begins to move toward them. Isabella and I join the flow of people, but my newfound sense of comfort is short-lived.

“Sophia!” a voice calls out, and my heart sinks. Even before I see her face, all the anxiety I’d been suppressing comes flooding back. Not now. Not ever again. My mom elbows her way through the crowd and wraps her arms around me in a rough hug, one that feels more invasive than affectionate. My body stiffens, but I force myself to endure it for the sake of those looking on.

“Mom,” I mutter, keeping my eyes glued to the floor. It’s impossible to avoid any further introductions as the boys zero in on me in full defense mode. Quickly reeling off names, I try to walk on, glazing over the fact a pair of celebrities are shaking my mom’s hand. The boys remain with me, forcing her to run around them to regain my attention.

“My, my,” her blue eyes twinkle. They’re the same shade as mine, but I’m still unnerved when they are anything but dazed from whatever drug she’s currently on. Keeping her voice quiet, she tries to hide beneath the soft music and chatter around us. “Someone’s landed on her feet. I told you years ago you’d have the perfect body for whoring yourself out.” She flicks my scalloped bra cup and bobs her brows. I hear a growl behind me, but Lucas stops Ezra from acting out. When it comes to my mother, the insults don’t quite hit the same. As if I’m numb to her opinions.

“Jude sure seemed to think I was whore material,” I comment back in a low, deadly tone. My mom inhales sharply but continues walking at my side.

She has always defended her drug dealer boyfriend, stating that he would never creep up to my safe space in the attic and try to molest me. Not that she would have known, being passed out on the sofa, but that’s not the story she gave the jury. She told them the pair were enjoying a movie together when I attacked him with a kitchen knife, scarring his face for life. A brutalreminder that this girl knew his type and snuck the weapon out every time he visited. Defending myself cost me two years of my life in a juvenile detention center, and if it hadn’t been for the failed drug tests of the defendant, it would have likely been more.

I will my lungs to expand with air and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Anyone else would refuse to ever see or talk to their mom again, but I’ve fallen for the ‘I’ve changed, I’m sober now’ excuse before. Maybe because I want the hope that it’s achievable, that there’s a chance I’ll kick my own addiction one day. Now I’m twenty-four, my confidence in myself is waning.

Stepping into the canteen, I barely recognize the place we destroyed with spaghetti a few weeks ago. Void of the long tables and benches, it's been transformed into an elegant dining area. Small tables for six are dressed with white tablecloths and a numbered paddle has been placed on individual placemats. The color scheme for the chairs matches the great hall, rose gold bows wrapped around the chairs, and pale pink confetti sprinkled over the floor. A podium sits in front of the shutters, which have been covered with a huge auction poster.

Lucas ushers me to a table with the rest of the Thorns, his hand on the small of my back, providing a comforting presence as curious eyes follow us. I shrug them off, grateful for Letty’s absence. This night is already complicated enough without adding her judgment to the mix. My mother is forced to sit alone at the adjoining table, although she scrapes her chair closer to me.

“Good evening, all,” a man steps onto the podium, his warm smile curving around the microphone. He’s tall and slender, his fine suit rivaling Mason’s. “I’m Dean O'Sullivan, and it’s with great pleasure that I welcome you all to our charity fundraiser.We are extremely fortunate to have such talented young artists in our midst, who have been eager to give back to the community. Let’s give them all a hand, shall we?” A long line of art students walk into the canteen, waving as we applaud. Once everyone has squeezed in, Dean O’Sullivan moves on to introduce the head of the art department, Ms. Carver, to get the main event underway.

I settle back, Kyan’s arm across my chair. His dark eyes sweep over me regularly, a note of concern held within. All three brothers are as close as can be, and across the table, Isabella checks I’m okay without a sound passing her lips. I nod, smiling genuinely. It’s much easier knowing they’re aware of the ‘pet’ agreement, so it doesn’t seem like I’m some random slut who’s taking advantage. Not to them, at least. My mother watches every movement like a hawk.

One at a time, Ms. Carver introduces all the art students on the program. They hold up a large image of their piece, beaming with pride. You can tell which table belongs to which student by the rambunctious cheering, and parents standing to capture photos on their smartphones. My nose tingles with the sensation that I might tear up, but I push it down. Pride is an emotion I struggle with.

At our table, hidden in the back, we clap and listen to the bidding in mostly comfortable silence. My mom snorts and makes rude comments about the art pieces, causing my cheeks to burn with embarrassment. I clench my fists under the table, trying to ignore her behavior and focus on the auction instead.

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