Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“Mija…”
I’m not Isabella’s daughter, but the softly uttered term of endearment constricts my chest all the same, and my voice is clogged when I speak. “Frankly, I don’t want to talk to them right now. I can’t find it in myself to care anymore what they think.” I take my aunt’s cool hand in mine. “When it comes down to it, I’d rather be here, making sure you’re okay.”
Her fingers thread through mine and squeeze in acknowledgment. “You are the daughter of my heart. You know that, don’t you?”
My eyes mist, and I blink rapidly, leaning into her. “I always wanted you to be my mother.”
Isabella makes a sound of distress. “I am here for you, mija. Always.”
We’re quiet for a few moments, then she breaks the silence. “For a while, I worried that I might have lost your regard.”
Her words punch through me, and I jerk back.
Dark eyes, the exact bittersweet shade of Killian’s, lock on me. “I hadn’t thought of it in many years but seeing Rye with you tonight brought it all back.”
I swallow thickly, my heart thudding so loud, I swear she can hear it.
Her gaze turns remorseful. “You were there that night I made a fool of myself with Rye. I saw you run off just as I pulled away.”
Shit.
Cheeks flaming, I duck my head, grateful that my new hairstyle allows the wings of my hair to fall over my face. “Isa—”
“No,” she cuts in gently. “Let me say this.”
It’s one thing to discuss it with Rye, but facing Isabella is acutely embarrassing in a way that might be childish, but I can’t shake. But it would be even more childish to refuse to listen. Woodenly, I nod.
Her hand falls to the couch and grips the edge. “I had wanted to apologize before.”
“You don’t have to. It’s none of my business.”
“I do. And it is. You’re my niece, and something I did betrayed your trust in me. That is not a small thing.” Isabella sighs. “At the very least, I want to explain.”
I manage a small, “Okay.”
It takes her a moment to speak, as though she needs to internally gather her thoughts, and when she does, the words come slowly. “I was favored with physical beauty. I never denied this. In truth, I was always thankful for my looks.” Her lips curl. “In my youth, my beauty helped get me anything I wanted: men, fame, fortune. How could I not be grateful?”
She shakes her head, glossy hair gleaming, and blinks into the distance. “But as I got older, beauty became the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. My whole identity was tied up in how I looked, how others looked at me.
“Ah, Brenna, how the world views women…” Her hand clenches, and she frowns down at the thin skin there as if pained. “It’s as though we have a sell-by date. Anything past that, and we’re suddenly spoiled goods. A model’s life is even worse. One line on the face, one pound gained…Our entire worth wrapped up in this outer package.” She waves a hand over her form, expression twisting.
When she glances at me, I nod. Of course, I know. Even now, I have to deal with a world that expects a flawless outer shell.
“I thought it wouldn’t happen to me,” she confides with a touch of asperity. “It would be different. Then I hit forty, and it was as though I’d become invisible. I was passed over, put out to pasture. Suddenly, I was a ‘ma’am.’ Suddenly Xander didn’t have time for me. I was no longer his golden girl, his beautiful prize.”
“Isa,” I cut in, compelled to say it. “Xander loves you for more than your looks. I know it.”
She sighs. “I know this too. Now. Then?” She bites her bottom lip. “There were things I didn’t understand. About aging. It hits you in ways no one spoke of then. The depression, the struggle to rise out of bed. The weight gain, even though you’re eating the same as ever. The constant exhaustion. You forget things, you start to wonder if this is all your life will be. You have aches where there were none. Add to that, breasts that have started to sag and periods that go missed…” She shrugs. “It does things to your sense of identity.”
Isabella runs her hand through her hair. “This is how I was feeling when I went to that party. Low and sorry for myself. Wanting to experience that excitement of youth once more. I will not claim it as an excuse, but there I was, drunk and lonely, and this gorgeous young man was telling me that I was worth something, that I was beautiful. I forgot who he was, who I was. I took.”
The moment crystalizes in my mind’s eye, and I see it anew, the way Rye appeared shocked as Isabella reached for him. At my side, Isabella makes a sound of self-disgust.