14. Nina
Nina
Y esterday showed me that deep down Evren is just like my father. My dad took away my rights to him without asking me. He made the unilateral decision to sever all connections with Mom and me, ignoring what we wanted or needed.
Maybe that’s just what rich men do—they take without asking for permission.
Unfortunately, Evren isn’t an exception to that rule.
All I wanted was to be asked, to be included in the decision.
The fact that he didn’t, that he assumed he knew better, cuts deeper than I expected.
It’s also a reminder that I’m not over my father and what he did to me, even if I thought I was moving past it.
When I enter the kitchen at seven, purposely skipping our cereal date, there’s a box and a note with my name on it on top of the dining table.
I open the card and there’s a beautiful watercolor picture of Istanbul on the front and a handwritten note that says, Words cannot express how sorry I am for not only overstepping yesterday but also not taking the time to ask what you wanted.
I can move you back into the pool house if you prefer.
Just say the words. I know this doesn’t come close to making it up to you, but I’m sorry. ~Evren.
I open the box that’s as long as my forearm and suck in a sharp breath.
Inside are rows and rows of neatly stacked chocolate-covered pretzels, but with fancy chocolate and fancy flavors if the card explaining each of the varieties is anything to go by.
Rose and pistachio, churro, hazelnut espresso, lemon lavender, and peanut butter toffee are just to name a few.
How the hell did he get this between yesterday evening and now? And why do I feel like crying while I pick up the peanut butter kind and take a bite? When was the last time I got a present from someone who wasn’t Elodie or Rose?
That’s an easy answer. Never.
I refuse to cry over pretzels, but no matter how many times I repeat that mantra to myself, it doesn’t change the fact that my nose stings with the telltale sign that tears are on the way.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Nate says from the doorway, interrupting my pity party. I startle and glance at him. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to ask for your phone. ”
“Why? Isn’t it enough that you took over my home?” It’s easier to be a bitch than to cry, so that’s what I go with as I silently apologize to Nate.
“I’m sorry we had to move you out of the pool house but?—”
“Why do you need my phone?” I ask.
“We have some new apps that will connect you and Evren with the security team. It’s unhackable, but we’ll be able to always know your location and have contact with you.”
“New upgrade, huh?”
“Only the best for Mr. Kaya.”
I mentally repeat his words in a childish tone, feeling marginally better afterwards, and pass over my phone. “Have at it.”
“Thank you. I’ll have this ready within ten minutes.”
He turns to leave, but I say, “Wait. Do you have any leads about who did this?”
“That’s classified.”
“This isn’t the CIA.”
“It’s not, but since you’re not the client, I can’t disclose that information to you.”
“Okay, then give me a hint,” I say. “Blink once if you have an idea, twice if you don’t.”
Nate doesn’t blink at all.
“Not blinking wasn’t an option…”
Nate’s lips twitch. “I suggest you talk to Evren.”
“Of course you do. ”
“I’ll get working on the phone,” Nate says, “and when it’s done, I’ll show you how to use the new app.”
“Did you have to show Evren how to use it?”
Nate huffs out a laugh. “No.”
“Then I don’t need help, either.”
“Niiiiina, baby,” Mom says. “Where have you been? It’s been days.”
“Sorry, it’s been busy.” Normally, when she says my name, it grates on my nerves.
But right now, the familiarity of it is strangely comforting after last night.
Maybe talking to her will bring me a sense of grounding I so desperately need because despite putting on a brave face, I can’t help but replay the break-in—the fear for Evren, for myself.
Sure, I’ll dust myself off and keep moving forward since that’s always been my way, but it doesn’t stop the lingering tension that clings to my body.
“Busy planning the jacket launch, I hope?”
“Yeah…” I lie.
“Are you? Because I noticed you never created that website like we discussed.”
“My internet’s been down for the past few weeks. I’m working on getting it fixed.”
“Well, good thing I got Susan’s son to make you a website. ”
“You…what?”
“It went live a few days ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this beforehand?” I open my browser and type in my name. Sure enough, at the top of the search is a new website that has the jacket front and center with a countdown ticker that’s set for a few weeks from now.
“I could ask you the same question. Why didn’t you tell me you were having internet problems?” She says “internet” like she thinks I’m lying, like it’s a substitute for something else.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “it’s just…life’s been hard lately.”
“Right. Hard.” Mom scoffs. “What’s so hard about your fancy new job? Or having millions of dollars waiting for you on this jacket?”
Instead of arguing with her about that, because it’ll lead to nowhere, I ask, “Why is the countdown set for a few weeks from now?”
“That’s when we launch.”
“We can’t just launch a product without inventory.”
“Why not?” Mom asks. “We’ll find a way. And if they never get a jacket…” She trails off, her meaning clear. It wouldn’t matter to her, not when we’d have the money, not when she’d have the money.
“No, we’d get sued. And speaking of a lawsuit, Stella threatened to sue me if I ever tried to sell the jacket.”
Mom gasps. “She has no right.”
“She kind of does.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Mom says. “This is our chance. We’re not going to let her take that away from me. Come on, after everything I’ve sacrificed for you? After everything I’ve done for you? I need this jacket to happen. I need you to help make this happen.”
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Let me investigate some options.” Like how to take down a website with my name on it when I didn’t approve of it.
“While you do that, why don’t you send me a couple hundred extra this week? I had to pay for the website and all.”
“Yeah…sure.”
After she hangs up, a hollow pit opens in my stomach, widening the longer I stare at the website. She’s serious, and when Mom wants something, she’s never stopped until she’s gotten it. I just don’t know how to get off this runaway train without hurting someone I care about.
Sighing, I head to my new room and immediately stop.
In the corner, with all my sewing stuff, is a shiny, new sewing serger with a note attached.
I rip the note open, and it says, Just to clarify, I didn’t get this to buy your forgiveness.
I saw how much you needed it, and I wanted to make your life a little easier.
And yes, I hoped it would remind you of me while you work. XO, Evren.
Who does he think he is buying the best one on the market? He’s quickly becoming a menace in my life with his thoughtful apologies.
I find him in the gym that’s only half done with only the neon-pink lights installed and neon-green mats on the floor.
“You bought me a sewing serger?” I demand, trying to muster up my anger, but there’s none. All that’s left is hurt and sadness.
“Is that a problem?” he asks, stretching on the mat. “I saw you needed one, so I got it for you.”
“How do you even know what a serger is?”
“Google was very helpful.” His charming grin makes me want to hit him.
“Don’t be cute. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Really? Because I think it does.” He looks me up and down and takes in my overalls. “I see you’re still angry with me. Why don’t you work some of that out on some punching pads?”
“I’m not angry.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Fine,” I grit out. “Do you really think you can handle me?” There’s a sharpness to my voice I can’t hide.
It matters, if he can really handle all the fears I keep buried and the parts of me no one ever sees.
Liking him means I’m stepping into something I shouldn’t want.
He’s older, wealthy, the opposite of me in every way, and has the potential to hurt me.
And yet, here I am, waiting for an answer like everything hinges on it.
Somehow, annoyingly, he seems to understand my real question and replies with a confident, “With ease.”
I scoff and hold my hands out for him to put the gloves on me. When he finishes, he steps back and places the punching pads on his own hands.
“What are you waiting for?” he taunts, holding his hands up.
The frustration,hurt,and fear from the past few days boils over, andI lunge at him,my fists flying as he takes the impact with ease. I throw another sequence of punches,faster this time, my pain too impatient to allow me to think clearly.
To the surprise of no one, he blocks every punch I throw—like I’m moving in slow motion and he’s already three steps ahead.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he asks, gaze full of amusement. “You need to train if you want to beat me.”
His amusement, like it’s cute how bad I am at this even though I’m actually trying so fucking hard to be good at this, makes me feel stupid.
“You hurt me,” I choke out, panting hard. “You took my choice away. I would’ve agreed. I get that it’s not safe. But you chose not to include me in that.”
My vision blurs. At first, I think it’s because I haven’t eaten much all day and that maybe I’m about to pass out, but then wetness trails down my cheek.
Oh no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening right now.
His eyes widen as he takes in my tears, and I’ve never been more embarrassed than I am right now. For him to see me like this? To witness the cracks forming in my shield against the world? It’s too much. It’s all just too fucking much .