Chapter 12
EVERLY
T he dining room is a pristine haven of sparkling chandeliers and immaculate white decor. Each table is its own secluded world, adorned with crisp, starched linens and hushed conversations.
I tug at my pink floral print maxi dress, suddenly feeling itchy in the soft sleeves, like they might be shrinking, as though they know I don’t belong here.
Mom sits across from me, delicately poised as always, even though I can see she’s tired, more fragile around the edges. A calm smile is painted on her face, but her eyes tell a different story. They are shadowed, filled with worry and exhaustion.
The waiter sets an amuse-bouche in front of me, some kind of foie gras mousse in a delicate shell. I know I won’t eat it, but I nod my thanks, trying to look like I know what I’m doing. My mother would never pick up on this—she’s more focused on appearances. But then, she’s always known how to float through these places, moving seamlessly in the world I do everything to avoid.
“How have you been, sweetheart?” she asks with a practiced sweetness I recognize but can’t quite absorb today. She looks at me like she’s trying to see into my thoughts, her face softening when she does.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “But I’m here to talk about you.”
She lets out a small sigh, barely a shift in her breathing, but I catch it. Her hand moves to the side of her glass, resting there lightly as though even picking it up would be too much effort. I notice the slight tremor in her fingers.
“It was a shock,” she admits. “But the doctors are optimistic.”
I feel my throat tighten, a sense of helplessness pressing down on me. “And the treatment plan?” I ask.
“I’m meeting with the doctors next week to discuss it. I just needed some time to process it before making any decisions.”
“Decisions? What is there to decide?”
A shadow passes over her face, and she picks up her glass, taking a small sip before setting it down precisely in its place. “Your grandmother had cancer, Everly. I saw what the chemotherapy did to her, how sick it made her.” The way she says it—a little too calm like she's rehearsed this line in her head—makes my heart stammer.
Her gaze is steady, but I see a flicker of something beneath it. Fear, maybe. Or resignation.
“Mom, this isn't the same,” I say carefully. “Medicine has come a long way since then. There are different treatments now, better options.”
“I know. And I am considering them all.”
“There is only one option, Mom, and that’s surviving.”
“Sometimes, surviving comes at too high a price.” She reaches for her glass again, and its clink against the table jolts me. “I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to go through all that…suffering.” She says that last word like it’s a reminder of what she witnessed when grandma died. “I watched your grandmother wither away, Everly. Day by day, that woman—the strongest woman I ever knew—was reduced to… just a shell. She was barely recognizable by the end, just skin stretched over bones, her eyes empty, like the fight had been drained out of her.”
She presses her lips together, swallowing hard, like she’s holding back a wave of memories that’s too painful to relive. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass, knuckles white against the deep red of her polished nails.
“All that chemo, all that radiation, it wasn’t healing her, Everly. It was breaking her, piece by piece.”
I bite back tears as I witness my mother’s grief casting long, dark shadows across her face. I reach over the table, my hand trembling to touch hers. “That’s not to say it’ll be the same with you.”
“It’s not to say it won’t.”
“Mom, please.”
“I don’t know if I’m brave enough to do this,” she admits, and I can hear how she struggles to hide her fear.
“You are,” I press, grabbing her hand with both of mine. “You are the strongest woman I know, and you can do this. You can’t give up. You said yourself the doctors are optimistic. If they are, you should be too.”
“It’s part of a doctor’s job to always give hope.”
“Stop it,” I say, squeezing her hand. “You are going to fight, and you are going to beat this. There is no other option, Mom. That’s it.”
“Oh, Everly.” She looks me in the eyes, her own brimming with tears that catch the flicker of the chandelier’s light. “I love you so much. Please come home.”
A heavy reality rushes back in, and I let go of her hand, tugging a strand of my hair behind my ear. “His house is not my home,” I say icily.
“He took you in when your father died. Took care of you, gave you everything you wanted and needed. Why can’t you see that he only wants to do what’s best for you?”
The sharp turn in the conversation leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, as sour and unwelcome as the untouched amuse-bouche in front of me.
I let my hands fall into my lap, clenching them tightly to keep from lashing out, to keep from saying all the things that are crowding at the back of my mind.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” I say.
“Neither did I.”
“Yet you’re using the opportunity to plead his case.”
“I’m not pleading,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I’m just stating the facts, something you seem to choose to ignore.”
“Are you serious, Mom? I came here because I thought… I thought you wanted to talk about you. About your diagnosis.” I pause, swallowing the knot in my throat. “But instead, it’s just more of the same. Defending him. Making excuses.”
She sets down the menu, her fingers pressing against the leather cover. Her eyes soften, but I can see the walls going back up, brick by brick. “Everly, it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it?” I press, my voice shaking. “Because here you are defending him—again, like he’s not trying to control my life.” I lean forward, trying to keep myself from raising my voice. “I’m not even his fucking daughter.”
“Everly Beaumont,” she scolds, glancing around us. “Watch your language. Michele has loved you like his own since you were a child, and it hurt him deeply when you chose to live with your father instead of me. You would rather have lived with the man who cheated on me, almost destroyed me, than with a man who has taken care of me ever since the day we first met.”
“You think it was easy for me? A teenage girl to be away from her mother, to look in the eyes of the man who broke our family apart every single day?” I shake my head, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat. “I chose to live with Dad because of your husband. I didn’t want to be a part of that…life,” I bite out. “You know what he does, how he makes his millions.”
“He’s a businessman,” she responds, pursing her lips, her tone touching the rim of defensive.
“Businessman,” I scoff. “Is that what you call it, Mom? Is that how you sleep at night?”
“Just because you do not approve of his methods does not mean they are invalid.”
“He’s a fucking criminal, Mom.”
“Everly—”
“I told you what I heard that night, him and his associates. When you came back from that Broadway show, I told you.”
“And I told you, you heard wrong.” She diverts her gaze, opening her menu. “Michele is a good man, a good husband. You’re holding on to this idea of him that’s not real. You don’t know the sacrifices he’s made for us. The way he’s provided. He did not have to take you in after your father died.”
“He kinda did, me being a minor and all.” My sarcasm is thick. “I’m pretty sure his wife wouldn’t have appreciated it if he left her only child out on the street.”
“Nonetheless, he took care of you. And he’s doing what he thinks is best.”
“For who?” My stomach churns, a deep anger bubbling up. “Me or him?”
“A man in his position has a lot of targets on his back.” She inhales, like she’s consciously trying to diffuse. “All he wants is to make sure you’re protected.”
“Protected?” I laugh bitterly, the sound hollow in the quiet of the dining room. “I don’t get it. You’re this beautiful, intelligent, strong woman, yet you somehow are incapable of seeing through that man’s bullshit.”
“Because there is nothing to see.” This time, she raises her voice. “He makes me happy.”
“Of course he does,” I shoot back. “You’re his trophy wife, a wife who knows her place, doesn’t ask questions, and looks good on his arm. You’re the whole package, the cover model of a mafia wife.”
Her lips press together tightly at the word. Mafia. There’s a thousand years of disapproval in her eyes as she stares at me, the silence stretching so thin it's a tightrope I'm about to fall off.
The chandelier light glints coldly off her diamond earrings, casting a cruel sparkle against the white tablecloth.
“All I’m asking,” she starts, “is that you listen to what he has to say.”
My heart slams against my chest, my skin instantly cold. “Mom? What did you do?”
“Five minutes, Everly. That’s all he’s asking.”
My stomach drops, and a sick, cold realization settles over me. I glance around, suddenly hyperaware of every shadowed corner, every glint of candlelight off polished silverware. The pristine dining room, with its glittering chandeliers and serene elegance, is now a cage.
I search my mother’s face, desperate for some sign that I’m wrong, that she wouldn’t really ambush me like this. But the guilt flickers in her eyes, unmistakable.
“I should have known.” I grab my bag, leap up, and as I turn to rush out, I’m met with steely gray eyes and the face of a tyrant.
“Everly.” God, even his voice sounds like a screech from the darkest pits of hell.
My insides burn with an anger that licks my veins. “I have nothing to say to you.”
His frame towers over me, large and intimidating. “Fine. I’ll do the talking.”
“The answer is, was, and will always be no,” I snarl. “I have to give it to you, though, using my mother’s cancer as a trap to lure me.” Something dawns on me, and I turn to look at my mother. “Do you even have cancer? Or was this all a ploy to?—”
“The cancer is real,” she states, her voice brittle as if spoken through shards of glass. “Nothing I said here today was a lie.”
“Making lemonade out of lemons, then, are we?” I spit, my gaze now electrifying.
His lips twist at my words; he’s too pleased with himself. The glimmer in his eyes sends chills rattling down my spine. “If you listen and are rational, you’ll realize I want what’s best for you—to keep you safe.”
Every word he says, pretending to care, makes me feel sick.
I stand tall, refusing to shrink away as I lock eyes with him. “You might be able to manipulate my mother, control her with your dark smokescreens and twisted lies, but I am not her. I’m not falling for your masquerade of concern.” I glance at my mother. “I’m here if you need to talk, and I will be there whenever you need me. But ambush me like this again, and that will be the last time you ever see me.”
“Everly, wait!” My mom shoots up from her chair, but Michele merely lifts his hand, stopping her.
“Let her go.” But there’s a flash of something sinister in his eyes, an unmissable curve at the edges of his mouth—like a thief, knowing all too well what he has already taken from you.
Warning licks the back of my neck, a sharp instinct that only strengthens as I push through the tables, heading for the exit. I don’t look back. I don’t stop. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing how much they’ve gotten to me.
Once outside, the cool evening air feels like a baptism. I gulp it down, desperate to shake off the lingering reek of manipulation and deceit, to escape the grip of everything suffocating me inside that restaurant. But just as I begin to feel my pulse slow, a hand clamps around my arm, firm, unyielding, pulling me.
I twist, heart leaping, and meet his hard expression.
Isaia.