Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
My stomach lurched at that reminder.
“I still have…” My words trailed off when I didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
“Tell me then,” he said, glancing over at me with an unreadable expression. “Tell me what goals you have that your mother actually allows you to work toward.”
I bit my tongue for a moment, not wanting to talk back, but… fuck it.
That word was getting so much easier to say and think. Though what kind of rebellion was a little swearing when I was also screwing a priest?
“My art,” I answered, crossing my arms defiantly over my chest and sticking my chin out. “Mother has agreed that if I get into a school on my own merits, she’ll allow me to go.”
“Then why aren’t you there now?” he asked, and my heart sank.
“Because my own merits aren’t good enough. I’m not good enough. Not yet, but Amelia said she would—”
“Stop,” he barked out. “I never want to hear those words out of your mouth again.”
“What words?” My heart lurched when he yelled.
“That you’re not good enough.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Was he mad I wasn’t good enough for an art program? Or was he mad I wanted to leave again?
“There is not a single art program in the entire world that wouldn’t do whatever they could to get you into their program. I have seen the greatest art in the world. I have been to the Louvre, visited countless churches in Rome and the Vatican where the greatest Renaissance masters in the world perfected their craft as a tribute to their God. Their work pales in comparison to yours.”
“You’re saying that because in the paintings you’ve seen, you’re the subject.” I rolled my eyes.
He let out a huff of laughter as he reached behind my seat into the leather duffle he had put back there.
“I’ll admit, those are my favorite pieces. But Luc has a painting you did for Amelia a few years ago hanging in his office. There are also several of your pieces in Amelia and Luc’s home.”
“She only hangs them because she’s my sister and she wants to be supportive.” I rolled my eyes again. I appreciated Amelia’s support, but it wasn’t the same. Those paintings were hung because she loved me, not my work. “Amelia telling me I did a good job is the same as someone’s mother telling them they did a good job. At least, I assume, for someone who has a supportive mother.”
He bit back another laugh, and I wasn’t sure how I could actually make jokes after everything. For whatever reason, I was just accepting that this was my fate, and I was glib about it.
“So you’re telling me, after all the bullshit your mother has put you through, the abuse, the—”
“Do you really get to judge her for hitting me?” I snapped.
“That was different,” he said, shooting me a look.
“Was it?”
“I’m assuming that when your mother hits you, you don’t get dripping wet and fucked afterward?”
Well, he had me there. He pulled a stack of envelopes out of the leather satchel and set them in his lap.
“Still, you can’t expect me to do absolutely nothing while you destroy my mother.”
“That’s exactly what I expect, angel, and I expect you will actually help me take her down. Yes, it will more than likely destroy your reputation in high society circles, but that community of two-faced snakes does not suit you. It’s become a gilded cage that has trapped you, and your mother has been your jailer. Help me take her down and you’ll gain your freedom.”
“I am free,” I argued, my voice not sounding convincing even to my own ears.
“Free to do what? You say you applied to these art programs. Did they reject you?”
“Yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest tighter. I hated talking about art school. I hated knowing that I wasn’t worthy of so much as a rejection letter. The judges who went through submissions probably laughed at my work before they tossed it aside and moved on to more promising students.
“Are you sure about that?”
“When people don’t send you an acceptance letter, that means they denied you,” I bit out.
“Or it means that your mother is actively stopping you from pursuing your dreams and destroying your self-worth while she’s at it.”
He handed me the stack of envelopes he held, and my breath caught in my throat as I stared at the emblem on the first one. Otis College of Art and Design. Their logo stared me in the face and I could see the envelope had already been ripped open. The letter was still inside.
I pulled it out and the first words had hot tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Dear Rose Astrid, We are thrilled to accept you into our fall term—”