Chapter Twenty-five
Serena
It’s finally Friday. Another boring day at work, sitting through endless sessions with clients who are either manipulative, perverted, or both. My current client? Just another old creep who spends more time ogling me than talking about his so-called issues.
I head toward Martha’s office to drop off my report, grateful to finally be done for the day. But in the distance, I see her, Blakely. My senior, my manager, and, unfortunately, a close friend of my father.
“Serena, a word,” she calls out, gesturing toward her office with a flick of her hand as if I’m some disobedient dog.
I swallow my annoyance, hold my head high, and follow her into her office.
“Serena, darling,” she begins, her voice dripping with false sweetness and her smile faker than a plastic Barbie doll’s.
Here it comes.
“I know your father worked hard to get you here,” she says, her tone just slightly condescending. And there it is, the constant shadow of nepotism hanging over me like a dark cloud.
“But, honey,” she continues, setting down her coffee with a theatrical sigh, “your performance has been very poor.”
Her words hit me like a slap, but I keep my face neutral, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
“You’re not making any progress with your clients,” she says, her tone as sharp as a blade. “With Moretti, despite seeing him three times per week, there’s nothing of substance in your reports. No breakthroughs, no progress, nothing useful.”
She sips her coffee as if she didn’t just gut me with her words.
“And with Blackwell, those sessions are, quite frankly, depressing. We need results, Serena. And, I’m sorry to say this, but it’s becoming clear that you’re not the best person for this job.”
Ouch.
I feel the sting of her words settling deep in my chest, but I refuse to let her see how much it affects me. I nod, keeping my expression neutral, though I can feel my fingers digging into my palms.
She’s not wrong about Moretti, I haven’t made any breakthroughs with him. How could I, when he spent every session playing mind games and making inappropriate comments? And Blackwell? He’s a lost cause, a man too bitter and stubborn to even try.
But hearing it from her, hearing her twist the knife, as if she’s been waiting for an opportunity to tear me down, it’s unbearable.
I square my shoulders and meet her gaze, my jaw tightening.
“Blakely, I am conducting my sessions according to policy,” I say, my voice flat and controlled. “If there is no progress, it’s because my clients aren’t sharing anything meaningful. I can’t force them to talk.”
The exhaustion weighs on me as I speak, and I can’t muster the energy to defend myself further. I know I shouldn’t let her talk to me like this, but honestly, I’m so damn tired of everything.
Blakely narrows her eyes, leaning forward in her chair with a predatory smirk.
“Let me get this straight, Serena,” she begins, her voice cutting like glass.
“You only have this job because of your father. I don’t care if you have to shove your boobs in front of some old fucker to get him to talk, just fucking do it.
That’s how you rich girls are, isn’t it? Privileged and useless.”
She leans back in her chair, her tone dripping with disdain. “I want to see results by the end of next week. Now get the fuck out of my office.”
Her words hit me like a slap, each one sinking deeper than the last. I know she hates me, but hearing it so plainly... it stings more than I care to admit.
I don’t bother responding. It’s pointless. Nothing I say will make a difference to her, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break.
I leave her office, my head down, and before I even realize it, my vision blurs with tears. The halls feel too bright, too quiet, as I make my way out of the building.
When I get home, my mother is already there, sitting on the couch with a magazine in hand. She doesn’t seem to notice the tears still clinging to my lashes.
They, she and my father, had a long, drawn-out argument about me moving out. They didn’t understand why I wanted my own space, and they fought me on it for weeks. But eventually, I won.
I couldn’t stand another day in that house, where every conversation revolved around two things: when I would marry and who they thought was “suitable” for me.
I glance at her as she looks up from her magazine. Her perfectly styled hair and flawless makeup make her look like she just stepped out of a photoshoot.
“Serena, darling,” she says, her tone warm but curious. “You look tired. Did something happen at work?”
“Bad day at work,” I mutter, dropping my bag onto the table and moving toward the kitchen to make myself a tea. My movements are robotic, every step weighed down by Blakely’s words still echoing in my head. “Apparently, I’m useless.”
I busy myself with the kettle, hoping my mom will let it slide. But, of course, she doesn’t.
“I’ve been thinking, Mom,” I continue, keeping my tone steady. “I want to quit and focus on writing. I’ve started something, and it’s really good. If you’d just take a look at it, you’d see—”
The sharp sound of her hand slamming against the table stops me mid-sentence. I freeze, turning to her in shock.
“What the hell?” I whisper under my breath.
“We’ve talked about this, Serena!” she shouts, her voice cutting through the silence of the apartment.
“You are going to work as a psychologist! You’re never happy with anything.
Your father and I have tried so hard to set you up for success, and this is how you repay us? By acting like a spoiled brat?”
Her words hit like a punch to the gut, each one sinking deeper than the last. I can feel my body trembling, my frustration boiling over.
“I don’t need your permission to do what I want!” I shout back, my voice shaking with fury. “You can’t control my life! If I want to be a writer, I’ll be a writer. If I want to be a freaking hooker, I’ll be a freaking hooker, and you’ll have no say in it! I’m not a child!”
The sound of her hand meeting my cheek is deafening.
I blink.
The world stills as the stinging heat radiates across my skin. I lift a trembling hand to my cheek, my fingers brushing over the spot where her palm connected.
It’s warm.
My mother slapped me.
Tears well in my eyes, the first one escaping down my cheek before I can stop it. I stare at her, speechless, my throat tight and raw.
‘“You’ll do exactly what I say,” she spits, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
“I’m so fucking tired of you. You’re 24.
At your age, I was already married to your father, and we had you.
But no, you don’t want a family, you don’t want a future, you want to whore around and waste your life being a useless writer. ”
I can’t breathe. Her words hit me like a freight train, each one knocking the air out of my lungs.
“I’m curious,” she continues, her voice sharp and venomous, “how are you going to pay your bills? What’s the plan, Serena? Taking a second job as a hooker? Paying rent with money from sucking dick?”
I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white as I try to steady myself. I feel like I’m going to collapse, like the ground beneath me is crumbling away.
What is happening?
Why is my mother saying these things?
She doesn’t stop.
“By the way,” she says coldly, as if what she just said wasn’t enough to rip me apart, “your father and I spoke with Archibald about a marriage between you and Ian. He agreed. We’ll meet next week to discuss the arrangement.
Oh, and one more thing,” she adds, her tone casual, like she’s discussing the weather, “your father was invited to Moretti’s 20th Anniversary tomorrow.
You’ll meet us at 8 PM at the Grand Hotel. Be ready.”
She turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the silence.
My heart races, pounding in my chest so hard I feel like it might burst. My ears are ringing, my vision blurring. I can’t move. I can’t think.
I stumble toward the mirror, my legs trembling, and catch a glimpse of my reflection. My cheek is red, with a faint bruise beginning to form. I touch it gently, the sting making me wince.
She hit me.
For the first time in my life, my mother hit me.
Tears pour down my cheeks, hot and endless, and I don’t even bother to wipe them away. I don’t have the strength.
I don’t understand how it came to this. Yes, we’ve never been close, but this? This is something else entirely.
I collapse onto the bed, my hands shaking as I bury my face in my palms. I can’t stop the thoughts racing through my mind, the weight of her words crushing me.
I will never be a writer.
I will never choose my own path.
I will never be with someone I love.
Marriage to Ian. It could work, I guess. He’s not the worst person in the world, we’ve been friends for so long. But marriage changes things. He’ll want to touch me. He’ll want me to carry his children. He’ll own pieces of me I’m not ready to give.
And he is not my choice.
I stare at the ceiling, feeling empty, hollow. Tomorrow, I’ll see Lorenzo at the anniversary party, but even the thought of him doesn’t stir the fire it used to. I feel numb.
Completely and utterly numb.
I can’t live like this. I don’t want to live like this.
The thought pounds in my head like a relentless drumbeat. My chest tightens, and I start to sob uncontrollably, my breathing shallow and uneven. My stomach twists in pain, and the lump in my throat grows heavier with every passing second, choking me, suffocating me.
Without realizing it, my nails dig into my thighs. Hard. The sharp sting cuts through the ache in my heart, momentarily dulling it. And then I do it again. And again. The self-inflicted pain becomes a rhythm, a desperate attempt to drown out the storm inside me.
I cry until my body feels hollow, my sobs growing quieter but more ragged.
I wish I could just fall asleep and never wake up.