Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“I love you, too, baby, and, unfortunately, he’s always known that, too.” He strokes my hair. “Let’s go see your mother.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I told my mother I’m not coming over, and it’s the first time I’ve ever drawn a line in the sand, Damion. I needed to draw that line, and you did that for me. You made me stronger just by being in my life. And we need this night, the night I move in with you, to be about us.”
“Are you sure? Because we can just do a quick stop.”
“There is no ‘quick’ when my mother is in drama mode. I want to go home to our home together. And for the record, I’m your ride or die. I’d bury a body for you.”
It’s a common saying, but it hits a nerve quite obviously. Torment rips through his stare, and then he’s back to staring at the ceiling, and my heart twists with uncertainty. What did I say wrong? “Damion,” I whisper, compelling him to look at me, and the torment of moments before is not gone. It’s oh, so present, and it crashes into me in hot, rolling waves. “You might just have to, Alana,” he says, his voice deep and raspy, but he doesn’t give me time to reply.
He pushes off the sink and laces his fingers with mine. “Let’s pack you up and, as you said, go home.”
I want to say more. I want to turn back time and take back my silly statement, but I cannot. And there is nothing I can do right now to make this right—to make him whole and us stronger—but go home with him.
Chapter thirty-five
Damion calls Adam into the room, and before I know it, the two of them go to work moving my things, and a mere fifteen minutes later, my clothes are packed into the SUV. While they make trips downstairs, I toss things into boxes. I’m overpacking when I’d planned to keep this simple and let the movers do the rest, but I feel a deep-rooted need to make this move feel official for both of us.
I need Damion to know this is official and that I’m all-in.
When I’m finally done packing all I can take with me tonight, I debate my furniture. Should I store it or sell it? I hate the warning zipping through me, telling me to keep it handy. That’s not all-in, I chide myself. I’ll sell it, end of topic. Decision made, I hunt for my cellphone, which leads me to the closet, where I find it on the stool. I snatch it up to find four missed calls from my mother and a slew of text messages. I sink onto the stool with the weight of the mental and emotional exhaustion my family drama has created.
I draw a hard-earned breath and read the messages.
Number one: Damion ripped your heart out when you were a teen. You think he won’t do it again? You’re the flavor of the month, and what happens when you piss him off and he ends your show?
Number Two: Answer my calls! I’m your mother!
Number Three: I know things about Damion you need to know.
My hand presses to my belly. Oh God. This is it. This is how Damion’s father is using my mother. He’s going to have her spill the dirty laundry Damion’s certain his father will use against him. Suddenly, my strong instinct to stay away from her tonight makes sense. I’d sensed this on that call. I’d known she’d work against me and Damion.
I force myself to read her final message: I’m coming over. We’re going to talk, and you WILL listen to me. My heart lurches, and I eye the time. Thirty minutes ago. I launch myself to my feet and try to call her, but land in her voicemail. It’s right then that I hear, “Damion. Oh my. You’re here.”
Oh no. Oh God.
At the sound of my mother’s voice, I all but torpedo out of the closet and through the bedroom. I enter the living room to find Damion sitting on the arm of my couch, my mother all but in his face. She’s of petite stature, shorter than me by an inch, attractive, and her large, rather righteous personality is in full flex. Damion, on the other hand, is alpha dominance personified, and yet he’s backed away, given her respect and space, intentionally chosen not to tower over her. He grew up around her and offered her respect; he’s extending that to her now because she’s my mom. We all have history, and it means the world to me.
I’m just not sure she deserves it.
“Why didn’t you just stay in Europe?” my mother demands of Damion.
“Because Alana was here,” he says simply.
“Oh, please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re here for your father’s empire, not my daughter, and somehow, someway, she’s part of your strategy to rule your father’s world. I will not see her hurt.”