29. Hope
CHAPTER 29
Hope
I dropped the box at his apartment last week, and I haven’t heard from him since. The package hasn’t been sent back, and he hasn’t even so much as returned to the café. I thought I’d be fucking elated when he stopped popping up where I was, but instead, I’m seriously pissed off. Is he giving me the silent treatment or something?
Fuck him. Who cares? If anything, it’s reminded me to harden my resolve about killing the fucker.
I watched the news last night. There was another murder, and the image of the body had already come through on my burner phone. This time, the man was stabbed multiple times in his home. The police allegedly have not yet been able to identify the culprit, but it’s assumed to be the unnamed serial killer.
My eyes lit up when I saw all the red, bleeding holes, and my hands itched to replicate them in glass. That’s what I’ll be working on next, and hopefully, it’ll help me purge this building rage.
I almost lose track of time in my studio until my agent calls me to let me know she’s getting her hair done for tonight’s event, and she hopes I’m in the process of getting ready. I lie, of course, then hightail it out of my studio and back home to get ready.
I’m certain my mom will be home at this time. We’re not usually home at the same time, and my mother once made a joke that I work the same schedule as my father. It’s usually early in the morning when I get home, and I sleep most of the day and then go back out and do it again. I know it’s not a healthy habit to be working most of the night, but it just seems to be when I’m the most creative. And I don’t want to stop that just yet, especially when it keeps me productive and feeling less stabby.
I search through my mother’s closet to find another purple dress. Just because Kylie told me not to wear the same thing again—I’m going to fucking do it. Kylie always wears black; she thinks it’s professional, I guess, so she’s going to shun away from anything that might bleed some color into her bitter soul. I find a dress that is very close in color to the last one and do my hair in a similar style to how I had it done last week, but this time, I pair it with silver heels.
“You working tonight?” Mom asks as she sits on my bed.
“Hey, Mom.” I give her an awkward hug, as the dress is only half zipped up. I was hoping I’d see her before I left, but she wasn’t here when I first arrived.
Her gaze scans my room, her expression going soft as she takes in the pale pink feature wall, the small balcony that overlooks the courtyard, and the pictures I have tacked to a board next to my vanity table.
“Yes. It’s going to be a long night,” I admit as I try to get the dress zipped the rest of the way. She laughs and beckons me over to help me. I have a similar curvaceous shape to my mother. I’m glad she taught me to embrace it at a young age.
“Can I come?” she asks.
I turn to look at her. It’s strange that she’s asking. I don’t usually like my parents coming to my work events because I don’t want people to think I got to where I am today just because my mother is famous. After all, that’s the furthest thing from the truth. And my father intimidates full-grown men just by looking at them. I’ve asked nicely that they don’t attend, and they’re happy to go along with my request as long as I make pieces for them in return. My sculptures are placed all throughout the house, and the moment a new guest walks through the door, my mother shamelessly brags that her daughter created them. The guests are always polite, even when they didn’t ask about them. It’s like a slow torture and rite of passage into our home. At least that’s what my father and I joke about since it’s rarely us bringing someone new to our home.
“Maybe next time?” I say quietly, a small pebble of guilt sinking into my stomach. If Kylie weren’t going to be at this event, I probably would let her come. But Kylie already has it out for me; if she finds out who my parents are, it’ll just make her dig her heels in even farther.
“Yes, of course,” she chirps, as if unfazed by the subtle rejection. I feel bad, and I know she’s feeling sentimental about something, or she wouldn’t be looking around my room like that. I sit beside her and grab her hand.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she says, then cups my cheek with a sad smile. “I’ve just been thinking a lot lately about how quickly you’re growing up. Everyone’s kids are getting married.”
I nudge her shoulder. “Well, not everyone, just Eli and Dutton. And, to be honest, they’re probably the bad eggs we should’ve been worried about, so it’s a relief, right?”
She laughs, hand to heart. I love my mom’s laugh. I love her voice. I love everything about her. “Don’t worry, I’m not getting married anytime soon,” I assure her.
“You might as well be married to your job. You’re as bad as me and your father.” She smiles. “I just want to make sure you’re happy. That we haven’t pushed you too much. Maybe we should organize a family trip. It’s been a while.”
I’m shocked, wondering where this has come from, and I press a kiss to her hand. Guilt immediately floods me. Is she feeling disconnected because of the lies I’ve been piling on? Or is she anticipating me leaving the nest? Is it time for that? Am I ready? Is that what she’s picking up on?
My mother chuckles. “I can always tell when you’re thinking.” She flicks my forehead lightly. “I just really want to make sure you’re okay. You seem busier than usual. I hardly see you, and I miss you, that’s all.”
She brings me in for a hug, and I sigh. It’s nice. I’ve been so busy and preoccupied with my own lies that I didn’t even notice how much distance, literally and figuratively, our schedules have put between us.
I feel an unfamiliar sense of courage building inside me as I look around the room with her. Maybe it is time for a change. Maybe I can’t always come back to this house. Maybe I need to stop arguing with my father that I’m not a child and show him that I’m an adult.
Something is changing, and I’m not entirely sure I like it. But it feels like something that’s due to run its natural course.
Fuck it.
“Would it just be you coming tonight?” I ask. Her eyes brighten, and she smiles with a quick nod.
“Okay. I just don’t want Dad terrorizing everyone into purchasing all my pieces again.”
She laughs. “Are you sure, sweetie?”
“Yes.” I need to stop worrying about what people will think about my parents. Who gives a fuck if they think I bought my way? I know the truth, and it’s a beautiful thing to have my family’s support when not everyone has the same luxury. But I’ve also had my reservations because I know this is the only side of me they’ll approve of.
“I have a few things to do before I arrive at the event, but I’ll see you there?” I ask, ignoring the call from my agent. I know if I don’t call her back after the second call, though, she’ll find me. She always does… in a creepy, stalker kind of way.
“Yes. What would you like me to wear?” she asks excitedly.
I can’t help but smile. I really did luck out having parents who have given me the world. And I feel so guilty that they ended up with a defective child, which is part of the reason why I won’t tell them my secrets.
Some lies are nicer to swallow.
“You look good in anything, Mom,” I tell her, then kiss her cheek.
I have to go back to my studio to collect some last-minute things before I head to the event. She walks me out and kisses my cheek as I get in the car, and she tells me how excited she is to come. It’s nice to know she’ll be there. It’s been almost two years since I let her come to an event, and for once, maybe I won’t be so uncomfortable being a spot of color in an otherwise dull and colorless crowd.
* * *
Kylie is the first person I see when I walk through the doors, and her expression conveys her horror at my dress. Did she really think I was going to take her advice on what to wear? Absolutely fucking not.
She saunters up to me, always enjoying the fact that she’s about half a foot taller than me, so she looks down her nose at me. “You look the same as you did at the last event,” she sneers and flicks her hair over her shoulder. She has on a black dress—again—but this time, her hair is down. It’s not quite as long as mine, but it’s long enough that it covers her shoulder blades.
“And you look as beautiful as always,” I say sweetly. She hates it when I’m nice to her because she’s only nice to me when others are around. I kill her with kindness because it pisses her off.
“Just don’t embarrass me; there’s someone here who I admire,” she warns.
I glance around the room. I went through the list of expected attendees, and most of them are people we’ve established good working relationships with.
“You? Admire someone?” I say, shocked. “Are they dead? Is that why you always look dressed for a funeral?”
She pins me with a glare, and I try not to laugh. Come on, that was funny. It wouldn’t hurt the bitch to crack a smile and pull the pole out of her ass at least once.
“Ha ha. No, she’s over there. Oh my God, she’s coming this way. Stay calm, and don’t ruin this for me.”
I follow her gaze and bite my bottom lip. My mother is heading our way, and I can’t help but find it ironic that her idol created and birthed someone she despises. I’d like to consider myself a bigger person, but sometimes I relish moments like these. I never thought there’d be a day when I’d weaponize my mother like this, and she doesn’t even know.
I really want to see Kylie’s face when she realizes who her idol is, but instead, my mother pulls me in for a hug, blocking my view.
“It’s so amazing, Hope. You’ve achieved so much,” she gushes, then turns to Kylie. “And you, Kylie. I love your work as well. I might just have to buy a piece to go with Hope’s pieces around my house to commemorate today’s events,” Mom says.
My mother was never hugely into art until I became interested in it. Aunt Anya, however, has always admired anything beautiful. I don’t bring her to these events either because she’ll stab someone for looking at her the wrong way.
I finally shoot a glance at Kylie and mask my glee. I actually expect her eyes to pop out of her head as she collects herself and clenches her jaw. She doesn’t know that Lena Love’s my mother yet, but knowing her idol has multiple pieces of my work in her home must absolutely be fucking up her system right now.
Kylie’s quick to insert herself, offering her hand to my mother, not missing a beat of opportunity. She begins telling my mother the inspiration behind the pieces and basically pushes me out of the conversation. Mom glances at me, but I wave off her concern. If this is Kylie’s claim to fame, then so be it. I’m petty enough to know I’ve already fucking won if this is what her championship looks like.
“I’ll be back.” I dismiss myself just as Kylie hooks her arm around my mother’s and proceeds to drag her around the exhibit. I suspect this kind of behavior is worse in my mother’s industry—the need and drive to be the best and cutting down others to achieve it at any cost. So, whether Kylie realizes it or not, my mother is great at spotting people like her a mile away.
But if it keeps Kylie away from me for the time being, I’m happy to throw my mother to the wolves as I head to the bar to grab a couple of glasses of champagne for my mother and me. Although I usually use a glass in one hand more like a prop, tonight, I feel like I’ll enjoy a glass with my mom. Having her here isn’t so bad after all.
It’s nice to be in Manhattan. I wonder when my schedule will slow down enough to give me an opportunity to look for a place of my own now that I’ve decided that that’s what I want to do. I want somewhere with a nice sunroom like my studio has. That way, I can have a similar setup if the mood strikes when I’m at home and don’t feel like driving to the studio.
“What, no whiskey?” a voice questions from behind me. I’m terrified the flutes in my hands might crack with how tightly I grip them as I turn around and face… Braxton.
I pretend to trip and spill one of the drinks on him. “Oops. I’m so sorry,” I say as I place the empty glass down and grab some napkins. I begin patting the wet spot on his shirt. I look up at him through my glasses. “I’m so clumsy.”
Dickhead.
Asshole.
Ghost.
Braxton stares down at his shirt. He clicks his tongue, then smirks as he presses my hand, holding the napkins to his chest, and then begins to move it slowly, almost sensually, over the damp fabric.
“Perhaps you can clean up a different mess.” His voice is gravelly.
“How crude,” I bite back, pulling my hand away.
“So is fucking up someone’s car and spilling a drink on them.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s weird. I didn’t know ghosts talked these days.”
“Oh, Shortcake. I’m not ghosting anyone. I’m just doing what you asked, or rather demanded, of me—leaving you alone.” He grins. “But by your peeved tone, maybe that’s not what you really want.”
Whatever.
He’s wiping down his shirt, completely unfazed, which bothers me even more.
Now? He wants to turn up now? And here, of all places? The asshole has some balls coming to one of my events uninvited… and entirely unwelcome. Though, I can’t help but quickly sweep an appreciative gaze over his attire. He’s dressed way nicer than usual. I’m used to seeing him in black slacks and a black button-up shirt. Not that he doesn’t have black slacks on right now, but in place of the dress shirt is an undershirt with a long trench coat over the top of it. He takes the coat off, shaking his head at the mess, then hands it to an attendant who’s hovering nearby.
He must have just arrived. Did he spot me from the door and just head straight for me?
I take a sip of the champagne, the tension palpable between us. So many fucking things I want to say to him, and yet… I just want to rip his fucking clothes off. The thought of going to the coat closet pops into my mind, and I must be out of my fucking head to even consider that with this man.
Braxton’s expression is smug like he’s won or is right about something.
“What?” I bite. It’s then I realize I’m rapidly tapping my foot. I force myself to stop. Fuck . I don’t want him reading anything from body language.
“You look ravishing as always, Shortcake,” he says and steps closer, basically caging me against the bar. He looks down at the glass in my hand and then back at me. “Do you plan to drink that this time?” I don’t bother asking him how he knows I don’t always drink it.
It’s obvious that I’ve taken two sips since he’s stepped into my vicinity, so with a bit of snark in my tone, I say, “I gave up on drinking; seems I do stupid shit when I do.”
“Yes, I guess stealing police officers’ wallets would make me want to quit drinking, too,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you were drinking when our cars had that damaging kiss.”
“I’d say it was more like mine forcefully shoving up the ass of yours, which couldn’t take it.”
His smile grows. “I missed that poisonous tongue of yours, Shortcake.”
My stomach drops, and I hate that my body is so responsive to him. The hot flush that immediately washes over me, and my body demands to rip apart this man to show him well and truly how much I fucking hate him.
“Are you stalking me again?” I ask at the same time someone says, “Braxton, you came.”
I turn to find Kylie, her face glowing as she leans in and kisses Braxton on the cheek. He side-eyes me as she does it, and I give him no reaction. Eww. My mother, unfortunately, saw it. She moves around Kylie and Braxton to stand by my side.
The moment Kylie steps away from Braxton—you could make the argument that he somewhat pushed her away—my mother cuts in, and I’m reminded that my father isn’t the only parent to be wary of.
“Hi, I’m Lena Love, Hope’s mother. And you are?” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I watch with growing satisfaction as the realization of who her idol really is clicks in Kylie’s mind. She must’ve been talking so much about herself that she never questioned how my mother and I are associated.
Braxton, on the other hand, knows exactly who she is. He offers her his hand, and they shake firmly as she studies him. I always wondered how someone so soft and sweet could handle someone as cruel as my father. But as she holds Braxton’s hand, I see the fire behind her eyes. It’s moments like these that I know she probably gave my father hell as he pursued her.
“Y-you’re related to Hope?” Kylie stammers and it breaks the awkward moment, reminding us that she exists.
“Yes, she is,” I confirm, smiling. “Besties.” I cross my fingers over one another, being an asshole.
My mother drops Braxton’s hand and seems completely oblivious to Kylie’s reaction. No, she’s fixated on Braxton, uncomfortably so, as if she already knows the things that have happened between us. “Braxton, how do you know my daughter?”
“You know Hope, too?” Kylie asks Braxton, and I can tell she’s really trying to keep her shit together right now. By how friendly she is with Braxton, they’ve either fucked or are fucking. Or she wants that to be a reality. Now I just feel bad.
“I do,” he answers, watching Kylie. “Although we’re only acquaintances.”
“‘Acquaintances’ is a bit of a stretch,” I bite back.
“Shall I tell them the story of how we met?” He raises a brow at me.
I pin him with a glare, and my mother reaches out and squeezes my hand. “If you’ll excuse us, I have to speak to my daughter.”
She doesn’t let me respond as she practically drags me to the bathroom. She checks every stall to make sure no one else is in here.
When she turns and faces me, her eyes wide, I can tell she knows who he is.
How the fuck does she know who he is? How much does she know?
“A detective?” she whisper-shouts.
“That’s what he is. Unfortunately, I’m not in charge of choosing people’s career paths for them.”
She pins me with her stare. Right, sarcasm is not going to get me out of this one. She’s seriously pissed.
“Is this why you’ve been coming home so late? Have you been hiding a certain detective from us? You know you can tell me anything, but you also understand the issues that would come with having someone like him in our family, right?”
I put my hands up in defense. “Whoa, you’re suddenly starting to sound like a detective yourself with this interrogation. It’s nothing.”
“I know when nothing is something to my own daughter, Hope Ivanov.”
Oh fuck . I’m seriously in trouble if she’s bringing out the last name.
“Do you think your father didn’t tell me about the detective who took a particular interest in you on the night Charlotte stole that wallet? You give me too little credit.”
“It’s not like that. I swear I didn’t know he was going to be here. Obviously, he came here for Kylie.”
She doesn’t look at all happy with that response, crossing her arms over her chest. It’s moments like this that I know exactly who I adopted that stance from. And when my body goes to do it in response to her, I stop myself. My hands clench into fists and then relax. What the fuck am I supposed to tell her?
“Are you telling me you haven’t had anything to do with that man since that night?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, conflicted by the lies I’ve been telling. I mean, technically, she didn’t say what night. I hate lying to my mother. There’s a difference between this and my sick, twisted hobbies, though. Isn’t there?
I do understand everything she’s telling me, and I’ve thought about it several times over the last few months since I’ve been seeing him. Not that anything happened between us right away, but that kiss led to me going home with him and a parking lot rendezvous. And while nothing else has happened since then, I can’t deny there is a very strong attraction between us. Yes, I’m pissed off with him and plan to kill him, but I can’t exactly tell my mother that.
“Nothing’s happening with the detective. He’s a total asshole.”
“Your father was an asshole too. A very charming one,” she bites back.
I try not to smile.
Whatever this living and breathing thing between me and Braxton is, it isn’t going anywhere except to the grave with him—soon. But I don’t fucking like the idea of there being more between him and Kylie. I wonder how they know each other and why he’s here to see her. He’s not dressed like he just came from work; he’s dressed for a date. And all the digging I’ve done has indicated that he’s very single. Even his apartment shows me that he’s single. So why is he here to see Kylie?
“The way he was looking at you…” Mom starts, shaking her head. “You’re lucky it was me here tonight instead of your father, or that man would already be dead.”
“I don’t know if that’s because he’s an asshole or because he’s a man,” I reply, unsure as to which way the threat is swinging.
“Both,” she says. “And let me just say, your father is the least of that man’s worries if he tries to mess with you.” A chill runs through me, and I’m certain my mother, in her own way, could and would destroy any person who tried to hurt me.
It’s definitely best that I don’t tell her how he hurt me in all the ways I like.
“Just stay clear of him. And be careful. You may not want it to go any further, but sometimes, things have a way of unraveling themselves. There’s tension between you two. Don’t get caught up in it,” she warns.
And I swallow hard. If she only knew the mess I’ve already gotten myself into.
Then again, fucking a detective surely will be the least of her concerns compared with the other damning things I’ve done.
Another secret.
Another lie.
It terrifies me how quickly they build.