Chapter 41 Evie
EVIE
Ew. Ew. Fucking ew. I’m not sure if the words actually leave my lips, but they blare through my mind as my mother throws her head back in what is obviously a fake moan, oblivious to me standing here in horror.
“Christ,” Dean Whitehouser curses, his eyes wide with mirrored shock.
The sight of them, coupled with the scent of my mother’s cloying perfume, sends nausea twisting through my stomach as my headache spikes to new heights.
As if on autopilot, I’m sprinting for the door, desperately wishing the loud pounding of my heartbeat would drown out the sounds of bodies shifting and a belt hastily being adjusted.
“We thought you should know about the affair,” Sloane says as I burst into the lobby.
I glance back to find her seated behind the desk, looking sheepish but composed.
“Dominic, Adrian, and Bane helped us out of a tough situation. I know this isn’t usually something they concern themselves with, but they’ve mentioned how happy Silas is with you, and once I heard your mom trying to force us to kick you out, I thought this might help you stay.
I wasn’t expecting you walk in on anything that… overwhelming.”
“Thank you.” I swallow, my eyes darting toward the hallway behind us at the sound of rushed footsteps.
“Ask about tuition,” Sloane mutters as I start for the door. My brows knit together, but the faintest whiff of chemical orange hits me again and I’m out of the office before I can ask what she means.
Pricks of bitter rain ping against me as I duck my head and keep moving, stuck in a half-walk, half-run even as I hear my mother call my name.
What the actual fuck did I just see?
My mother. The woman who’s always demanded compliance, who preached quiet servitude to my father, half-brother, and every man in my life simply because I was born a woman.
Because of some supposed sin recorded eons ago that had nothing to do with me.
A curse I was meant to carry. And the whole time—the whole fucking time—everything she’s said has been a lie.
“Sweetie, please let us explain.”
The deep tenor of Dean Whitehouser’s voice has me stopping in my tracks. Rain howls around us, soaking through my thin jacket and drenching my jeans, but I turn to face him with a viciousness I’m proud of.
“Do. Not. Call me that.” The words are a growl as much as a promise. Of what, I’m not sure, but suddenly the image of Silas with a Glock in his hand and blood splattered across the canyon doesn’t seem so scary. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Dean Whitehouser stands there, glancing back to where my adulterous mother huddles beneath the administration building’s overhang, avoiding the worst of the storm. Because of course she is.
“This isn’t how we wanted to do this,” he says, shifting on his feet.
“We?” I snap. “How long has this been going on?”
I’m not sure why I ask, only that I expect the question to hurt him. And I want it to. I want my mother’s shame, but I’ll settle for his. And then his eyes soften.
“A little over twenty years. It started as a friendship. The early days of her marriage to Roy and having to be a stepmother to Jonathan were tough. I was there for her. Platonically at first, but then one thing led to another and… Trisha became pregnant.”
I blink as the silence stretches between us, fat raindrops hammering the concrete.
“With you,” he adds, searching my face, studying me with eyes the same color as my own.
“No,” I whisper, waiting for him to laugh or to explain that this is all some kind of twisted prank, but he just stands there with an idiotic smile on his face. Like he expects me to run into his waiting arms.
“Yes, sweetie,” he says, and just like that, the lens through which I view the world shatters. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care because he keeps talking, keeps unraveling my reality.
“I’m your biological father. Your mother and I discussed the possibility of raising you together, but there was the whole thing with Roy and Jonathan…
and well, I don’t exactly have a lot of free time.
Being the dean of a prestigious university is a significant commitment. Parenting would’ve been a burden.”
I flinch as if he slapped me.
“I have to go,” I mumble, needing to get out of here.
“Of course,” he says, keeping pace with me for a few steps. “But now that it’s out in the open, I’m happy to cover your costs of attendance. Tuition, room and board. Just send me the bill. It’s the least I can do.”
Numbly, I nod, holding on to the last shreds of my dignity until he turns away, joining my mother at the edge of the building.
I keep it together until I’m out of sight.
Then I run, splashing through murky puddles and muddy sidewalks. The rain has softened to a hazy mist, but the vast doors of the cathedral rise through the grey ahead.
It’s the time of day where morning services have ended and afternoon ones haven’t begun, which means no one is there to see the mess I’ve become as I crash through the doors—rain and grime and heartbreak clinging to my heels.
Rows of pews stretch before me. Dark stained glass looms overhead, judging me. Weighing my battered heart and finding it wanting.
“Am I being punished?” I ask the flickering candles and silent saints.
Thunder rolls a few moments later, as if in answer.
I drop to my knees, my soaked jeans pressing against the cold floor, my wet hair clinging to my face. And cry.