Chapter 31
Iunlock the side door to my mom’s house as quietly as possible, easing it open like I’m back in high school, sneaking in past curfew. I make it three steps into the kitchen before I hear her voice. Then, she rounds the corner.
Her blue eyes land on my neck—and immediately, they squeeze shut, like she’s seen something she doesn’t want to.
“I have too much going on to yell at you right now,” she snaps. “Storming out, turning off your phone … acting like a fucking child. I don’t even want to know where you were last night. Just—shower, cover that up, and put on a smile. Your grandparents will be here before lunch.”
Merry Christmas to you too.
Although, yeah—I deserved that.
I almost say I fucked a guy older than you just to watch her combust, but that’s way too far.
You’re triggered. Nothing you say right now will help.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks as I pass her, on my way to shower.
And there goes the plan.
“What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?
” The words explode out of me before I can stop them.
“Why do you think I left yesterday? Do you even care? It’s because you spend your whole day spouting news that is only carefully curated bullshit and try to call it truth.
Look at my degrees. Listen to my words. You don’t have some secret access to the truth.
You’re being fed a narrative that keeps you watching by people monetizing your attention, and you’re eating it up, blissfully unaware that this circus is just that.
Your deities are money hungry people playing into the attention economy.
They would be making content for anything that gets them views, trust me. ”
She scoffs, arms crossing.
“I love a good internet conspiracy theory, but I know it’s just that. Everything seems like a conspiracy when you don’t know how anything works.”
“Go back to the city then, where your type of people live.”
The words hit harder than they should. Tears immediately well in the corners of my eyes.
No one wants me.
I slam the bathroom door shut, flick the water on, and step inside before it even warms. I shiver, the cold water sluicing down my body. I press my palms to the tile and let myself sob.
Here it is. The regret. The crash. The come-down I always pretend won’t come—but it always does.
I slide down into the tub, knees pulled to my chest, as water crashes over me. I cry until my stomach aches, until my throat is raw, until the tears run out and I can finally breathe again.
I sniffle and decide I’ll tell my therapist everything. Another hookup. Another fight with my mom. More badges in my collection of bad decisions.
Why do I always think it’ll be different? That some man—any man—is going to make me feel whole?
Fuck Piotr fucking Kruk.
It was perfect until it wasn’t. Well—it was fucked from the start, but it was raw in the best way.
And now, I get to see these bruises every day until they fade. More punishment. More reminders I’m still the broken fucking girl no one wants.
I stare at my scorpion tattoo. The black ink covers years of pain. At least I’m not reaching for a knife. That’s a win. Fucking morbid but true. It’s been almost four years since I last did that.
I can take care of myself—because I have to. No one else will.
I breathe deep and hold it, comforting myself in what I’ve accomplished.
You make more money than most people.
You solve problems most can’t.
You are a bad bitch.
I exhale slowly, letting it sink in. I’m not masking today. I’m going back to Chicago.
After drying off, I cross the hall to my childhood bedroom. It’s changed since I lived here, but there are remnants—trophies and medals line one of the walls. I pause at the robotics trophy. My favorite. My first exposure to coding. Probably the smartest extracurricular I ever signed up for.
That trophy signifies so much. All the other kids had dads doing half the coding at home, guiding them with their engineering degrees. My stepdad was useless. All I had was me, the internet, and the determination to prove I was smarter than all the boys.
I was. I still am. Yet, I fucking suck at real life outside work.
I throw my hair into a messy bun and pull on leggings and a long-sleeve shirt before I reach for the festive sweater I’d planned to wear for today. It’s less tacky than yesterday’s, with an embroidered Christmas motif throughout.
I’m not in the Christmas spirit.
I hesitate. Am I really skipping family Christmas?
It feels like something I can’t undo. I’ve talked about going no contact with my family more than once in therapy. I have no issue never speaking to Ed or his sons ever again, but my mom … I shake my head.
My grandparents would be so pissed at me if I left right now.
So would my mom, but I would feel guilty about upsetting my grandparents today.
They’re more like parents than her. I’d never go no contact with them.
Ever since my stepdad and his sons moved in, I’ve spent as much time at my grandparents’ house as possible.
If I leave now, that’s the end of my relationship with my mom.
My gaze drifts to the beach painting above the bed.
My dad painted it for her as a way to remember our big family road trip to California.
I was twelve, and that was my last magical Christmas.
I mean, I stopped believing in Santa when I was eight, but it was the last Christmas that felt like a movie.
My mom got rid of Dad’s art and everything of his so fast after he passed. She just erased him and started over with my stepdad Ed, moved my stepbrothers into his art studio and all. She was all in on Ed and his kids while I just needed someone, anyone.
Should I take the painting with me?
I fought to keep it. We were happy once, before Dad got sick. The painting is a reminder of that. My life hasn’t always been awful.
Taking it seems too final. I’m not ready to fully walk out of the house and never see them again. But if I stay, it will be a rerun of yesterday, of what led me to leave the house and drive to a bar … Krampus.
I hastily pack my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I stare at the beach scene again, thinking of how my dad and I used to paint together. I reach for it, putting it under my shoulder, and head for the living room.
I’m done with this place, with these people.
My stepdad sits on the couch, watching golf, coffee in hand.
He looks older today—probably because he’s nothing like Krampus.
He’ll be on the couch for the rest of the day.
If anyone gives him a hard time about it, he’ll say he’s resting his hip, which he refuses to get replaced.
The Christmas tree glows in the corner, presents spilling out beneath it.
My mom’s in the kitchen, hair already done, full makeup on, ready to put on a show.
I assume my stepbrothers are still sleeping.
“So,” I say, loud enough for both of them to hear, “I’m gonna head back.”
Mom presses her fingers into her temples. “I … I don’t know why you always have to be so dramatic.”
I shrug and step into the kitchen, headed for the side door.
“Morgan, don’t go,” she says quietly as I pass her. Her voice cracks just enough to make me pause.
“I can’t fake a smile today,” I say softly and reach for the door handle.
“Why are you taking that with you?” she asks.
Then, the doorbell rings.
It’s way too early for my grandparents.
“Are we expecting a delivery?” my stepdad calls from the couch.
“No,” Mom replies.
I step away from the door and walk farther into the kitchen so I can see who’s here as my step-dad opens it. I hear my own heartbeat as I see a man come into view.
Krampus.
Fucking Piotr fucking Kruk.
The puffed shoulders of his black coat dwarf Ed’s wilted frame. My heart starts to race when my stepdad turns back, looking confused.
I inch forward, and Mom shifts behind me, like she’s coming too. I hold out a hand to stop her.
“This is my mess,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
As I approach the door, I clock the Christmas-themed bouquet in Piotr’s hands. Flowers? Really? Fucking flowers? I’m annoyed again, annoyed by this whole fucking day.
“Morgan,” my stepdad says with a concern I’ve never heard from him. It nearly startles me.
Since when is he protective?
“Ed,” I snap, “give me a minute.”
He stares at me for a beat then cautiously steps back into the living room. Now, I’m looking directly into the bright, arrogant blue eyes of a man I should no longer find attractive—but, damn it, I fucking do. His soft smile almost makes me forget why I’m angry.
“Do you not know how to read a clock? Dinner happens at five,” I say coldly, not able to think of anything else to say.
“I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”
“I hate flowers.”
“They’re for the host,” he replies smoothly.
I loudly laugh. “You’re not serious.” I think back to our joke—him being my date to Christmas dinner.
“You invited me,” he says, cocking his head.
I blink hard, overwhelmed. “I uninvited you.”
“Semantics.”
My jaw drops. I wish I didn’t like him here. I cross my arms. “I didn’t give you the address.”
His expression barely shifts. “I have my ways. Plus, I needed to see you again.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” I hiss, fighting the urge to glance back at the sure-to-be-eavesdropping audience. “I’m not introducing you to my family.”
He lowers his voice. “What’s worse, baby girl? The questions they ask when I leave … or me staying?”
Baby girl.
“I hate you,” I whisper, although I’m smiling.
“I’ll make up for it later,” he says, sex dripping in his tone.
I scoff. “Do you not understand the concept of a one-night stand?”
“I understand, but you’re more than a tight pussy.”
My cheeks flush. He’s not whispering anymore. My mom and stepdad definitely heard that.
I should tell him to go, slam the door in his face. However, that doesn’t feel right in my body. My heart has me wanting to jump into his arms and kiss him. I adjust the painting under my arm. My brain is on overdrive, considering what I should do next.
“I’m not leaving until you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me here,” he says into the silence.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I hate him again—for making me feel so fucking seen.
“Who’s Morgan talking to?” I hear my stepbrother Jason ask behind me.
I yank the flowers from Piotr’s hand, shove them at my mom without looking at her, and then push Piotr backward, shutting the door behind me so we can have privacy.
“Morgan,” he says, reaching for my hand.
I pull away, setting the painting on the front stoop. I’m not ready to give in, not yet.
He steps forward anyway, flattening his palm against my lower belly, pinning me softly against the door. My breath catches. I’m not scared. I’m remembering how he touched me last night—how he commanded me.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have told you I had you vetted, but I didn’t expect this, something real. I didn’t expect something incredible to happen between us.”
I shut my eyes, overwhelmed as tears prick again. I’m exhausted and freezing, standing here in yoga pants and a thin long-sleeve. I clench my fists to warm my hands.
He unzips his coat.
“No,” I protest, though my tone comes out meek.
“Baby girl …” I hear the soft reprimand in his tone.
A tear slips down my cheek. That name does things to me.
He drapes the coat around my shoulders and cups my elbows, warming me. “You can punish me for fucking up however you want.”
A laugh bubbles out—unexpected. Something wicked flickers in my mind. I shouldn’t be smiling, shouldn’t be this turned on.
“You already know what it’s going to be,” I say with a smirk.
He growls then threads his fingers through mine. “Anything for my baby girl.” He lifts my hands and kisses my knuckles, one by one. “What I think you want most right now,” he says, staring deeply into my eyes, “is to get out of here.”
He’s right. I nod.
“Let’s go.”
“You think this gesture is enough of an apology?” I laugh lightly, and then my eyes go wide as he drops to his knees on the cold, concrete sidewalk.
“I fucked up letting you leave this morning, by not fighting, not explaining,” he says, staring up at me.
I wipe my eyes, stunned he’s bowing.
“I don’t want us to never see each other again,” he says after a moment.
“Fuck these tears,” I say, wiping my eyes. I feel the same. “Where are we going?” I ask playfully, already surrendering to the fact that I’ve fallen for this old-ass man.
“Wherever you want.”
I hum, squinting at him. “Wait. You brought my mom a gift and not me?”
His expression doesn’t change, but he stands, reaching behind him and producing a long, velvet box. “I got you something.”
Jewelry? My eyes widen again as he hands it to me. I flip open the box to find a diamond tennis necklace.
“Oh my God,” I whisper in disbelief.
“Wear it when you want to be my baby girl. Otherwise … I’ll enjoy spending time with Morgan.”
My whole body pulses with want, with ache. I want to kiss him.
“Put this collar on me already,” I say, half-joking.
“This isn’t a collar,” he chuckles deeply, lifting the necklace from its box. “This is me showing you I’ll always spoil my baby girl.”
He leans in, fastens it behind my neck, and presses his lips just below my ear—right where the makeup covers his marks from last night.
“So …” His lips brush against my skin again. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace warm.”
“Get in my car.”
My eyes flick to my car in the driveway. “I have mine.”
“You’re riding in mine.”
I raise a brow. “Why would I get in a car with you?”
“Because you love how I hold your hand, squeeze your thigh, kiss you, and turn off your brain.”
No lies.
“I’ll only get in your car if you tell me your life story during the drive.”
“I only want you to get in my car if you agree to change your tattoo.”
I squint at him.
“Add an apostrophe so it says I’m perfect. Then, no more needles.” He pokes my forehead.
“But what if I want another tattoo?” I test.
“We can discuss.”
We.
“I have to ask permission to get another tattoo?”
He tugs the necklace, pulling me closer. “If you get in this car with me, you agree to this dynamic, to this life.”
I look up at him. “I’ll get in your fucking car if you promise to not keep secrets and to never make me feel unwanted again.”
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me flush to his chest. “I promise.” He squeezes me tight. “My hands won’t leave you until we get to my jet. Then, I’ll say I’m sorry with my tongue—until we land somewhere warm.”