26. Hope
CHAPTER 26
Hope
“D o you think when someone is bad, like really bad, that a good person can accept them the way they are? Like romantically?” I ask my father. He picked me up from the airport, which is nice. It’s been a while since he’s done that. I’m so used to the drivers coming to collect me that when I see a familiar face, especially my parents, I can’t help but smile and feel like a big child again.
It’s a relief coming back home, but the older I get, the more I realize I’m not a child anymore. I wonder if this is what it’s like for Billie and Ford. They don’t live together at the moment but they spend as much time as they possibly can with one another. Is that what it feels like for them? Like coming home to a big hug? I know my parents will always be here, and if anything, my father is probably the most reluctant about me moving out. I’ve considered getting my own place before, but right now, with my schedule and how much I travel, it just makes sense to stay with my parents.
But lately, I’ve been thinking more about my privacy. Most likely because my secrets only continue to grow.
My father is studying me in a way that often leaves most people unsettled. Maybe the question was too random, or I exposed myself too much by asking about relationships. “One of my friends from college recently started dating a guy, and she said he’s really bad, but she’s a good person…”
“Is this Charlotte you’re talking about? Your mother doesn’t like her.”
“Ouch,” I mumble, and he chuckles.
I haven’t spoken to Charlotte recently, but I don’t correct him. My mother’s too nice to say that to my face anyway. My father, however, doesn’t pull any punches.
“Your mother is good, and I’m bad. Yet here we are,” he says simply. And I guess he’s right. While I understand that my mother doesn’t like to get involved in any of my father’s business arrangements, he makes an effort to keep his work away from her whenever possible because he respects her boundaries. They are the most diverse a couple could be, in my opinion.
She is the epitome of what it means to be good and wholesome. She’s charitable and kind and is always creating ways to empower women, which couldn’t be more different from my father, who is infamous for his skill at killing and his underground auctions.
“But how did you know she was the one? Didn’t you have obstacles?” I ask, pressing him for more. My father is a man of few words, and although my mother has often gushed about how my father persuaded her to give him a chance, I feel like they gloss over certain details. My mother simply said it wasn’t always easy, and she had to be patient with him. Aunt Anya let it slip that he almost died killing an ex-girlfriend to protect my mother, and my mother was quick to usher me away into another room, trying to laugh it off. I was six at the time. And when I reflect back to my upbringing, I remember how much my mother tried to hide from me.
What if all of that darkness is somehow finding its way to me now? What if I truly do take more after my father than my mother?
“All relationships have obstacles. But if he’s a piece of shit, I can deal with him… For Charlotte. Even if your mother doesn’t like her,” he says.
“You don’t have to keep adding that last part, Dad,” I say, and I can see the humor dance across his eyes. I try not to laugh as we pull into the estate.
Lately, I’ve been feeling shitty and conflicted about the lies I keep telling, but I don’t think I can pull away from the path, curious about where it will take me. My family has always supported me in every aspect of my life, so hiding these things is starting to make me feel… guilty isn’t the right word, but I question how much of a conscience I have. Because I know it’s bad, and I know I shouldn’t be doing it, but I just can’t help myself. And I don’t understand why I can’t stop. Braxton complicates everything.
I was always quiet and reserved. Just observing everyone around me. I like to take in people’s actions and their words to see how truthful they are. People accepted me that way, but Braxton tugs on an entirely different part of me. And it scares me. I know he’s bad for me. I know I should stop. But I can’t. And in truth, I’m not ready to. How bad is bad? When will I stop? When will I draw the line and actually kill him?
Would my mother be disappointed in me? She uses her talents to express emotion in song and movement. When people hear her sing, it’s like floating on clouds. She used to sing me to sleep every night, and some nights my father would lie in bed with me as she did, and we would both fall asleep to her lullabies.
My greatest creations are born of something twisted and grotesque. Where mine make people’s lips curl in disgust, just like the person at the café. That’s how my true art would be received, and I’m incapable of putting myself out there for it like she can.
My father pulls up at the front of the house to drop me off. He has a business meeting to attend with my aunt, so I lean over to give him a hug and thank him for picking me up before I get out of the car.
I once asked what he thought of my mother’s singing, and his answer stuck with me. “It’s like heaven and hell all mixed into one. It can soothe you, but at the same time, it can move you.”
I always dreamed of having a love like theirs. If there’s one thing in this life I know I want someday, it’s that. But lately, I’ve been thinking about it a little more, and I feel like I’m in foreign territory.
The butler comes to collect my bags and welcomes me home. “Welcome back, Miss Ivanov. A package came for you. It’s on your bed.”
“A package?” I ask.
“Yes. It appears to be from a gallery. Don’t worry. We’ve checked to make sure it’s safe.”
I sigh, not because they opened it but why it’s necessary. My father put in place a process to ensure no kind of weapons, like bombs or poisons, would reach the members of our family. See, not entirely normal.
I walk into my room and see a medium-sized box on my bed. I don’t recall purchasing anything or being offered any gifts, but things are sent to me from time to time. A box cutter is waiting for me, and before I slice it open, I pluck the white note from atop the box.
These are as beautiful as their creator.
But my shelves are full.
xx
A bad feeling begins to swirl in my stomach as I slice open the box and pull the bubble wrap away. My teeth grind as I look down at the collection of my glass statues.
He sent them back to me?
How fucking dare he send them back to me!
He had the cheek to send them back to me, convinced with the absolute certainty that I created them. Not only that, but he’s daring enough to send them to my home. Is this guy for fucking real? Does he not fear me even in the slightest?
Does he not appreciate the time I put into creating these? Granted, initially, they weren’t for him. But as of late, I’ve kept him in mind as I methodically create each and every piece. I fucking sweated for hours to make these, and he thinks they’re worth so little that he can just ship them in a box with fucking bubble wrap?!
Fucking bubble wrap?!
I want to grind them into dust. Then, it occurs to me that he might be baiting. I sit at the edge of my bed, biting the edge of my nail. If I were Braxton Hero, what would I be thinking? Why would I be doing this?
A lethal hum rises under my skin.
I hate him so fucking much.
Then, an idea sparks in my mind. It’s risky. It could backfire.
But Braxton and I are far from playing a child’s game.
I grab my phone and send a message to Hawke to schedule another shooting practice.
I tape up the box, fucking furious.
The sooner I put a bullet in his head, the better.
“Miss Ivanov, your dress for this evening is ready. Where are you going?” our butler asks as I hurry out, carrying the box that’s most likely half my fucking weight, with the determination of a woman on a warpath.
“I’ll be back soon. I’m just making a quick delivery to a friend. I won’t be late,” I call out to him.
I can tell he’s nervous. Most likely because my agent, Candice, allegedly lost her mind at him once when I was late for an event. I don’t intend on getting anyone in trouble today.
Except a certain asshole who needs a taste of his own medicine.