Chapter 32
32
“I have great news,” I squeal to my mother over speakerphone. I sound so similar to the other day when she called me and had me meet her at the studio space. I called her four times this morning, ready to tell her we don’t have to be under Cernach’s thumb. “You don’t need to open a dance studio with Cernach. Damien is helping me open one for us.”
I take a bite of my peanut butter toast and wash it down with a sip of OJ before smiling in satisfaction. Cernach will be out of our lives.
Good freaking riddance.
“Your boyfriend of only a few months?” she asks around a scoff.
My smile collapses.
“Going with Cernach is a better idea,” she adds with too much confidence for a woman in her position.
“Damien said he’ll put the studio in my name.” I shift on the island stool, dragging my knees to my chest.
“Who’s to say he’ll actually do that? That he won’t take it when you break up?”
When you break up .
Not if .
My mother has an ugly outlook on love, yes.
But not every man is like my father and Cernach.
After what they put her through, I don’t know if anyone will ever be able to convince her otherwise.
“He said he’d put it in my name,” I repeat, shoving my plate up the island, my appetite now gone.
“Like a man would do that with no strings attached.”
“You think Cernach’s deal doesn’t have strings attached?” It has more than strings. It has a metal chain, a block tied to her ankle, and he’ll be at the top, playing puppeteer.
“Cernach is family.”
“He’s a manipulator. You’ve told me that yourself all my life.”
“We’ve already signed the documents. The space is mine, and we start moving in next week. We need to sit down and draw up a class schedule for you since you’ll teach most of them. My arthritis acts up too much for me to do more than two a week.”
It’s like nothing I said registered.
“I’m not working anywhere Cernach-related,” I say. “Damien is opening a studio for me. That’s my plan.”
“Are you kidding me?” she screams. “I’m telling you right now, if you open a dance studio even remotely near here, I’ll never forgive you. I am your family, your mother. Are you really going to take something like this away from me?”
Tears form in my eyes, and my voice cracks. “Mom?—”
“I thought you’d be happy for me getting a new studio. I’m trusting my brother will do right by me. He’s apologized for hurting me in the past, and we’ve moved past our issues. We can trust him, Pippa. Tell your boyfriend we don’t need his help. If you open your own studio, I’ll have no choice but to see it as a betrayal. We’ll talk later. Bye.” She hangs up without letting me get a word in.
Wow .
She sounds so much like the Koglins.
My mother is reverting to her roots, forgetting they’re full of decay.
I roughly slide my phone along the island and drag my hand through my wet hair.
“Fuck that,” I hear from behind me.
I spin around in the stool to find Emilio staring in my direction. He hardly talks to me. Sometimes, I forget he’s even here.
“Fuck what?” I ask.
He lowers his phone, his dark brows furrowing. “Your mom and that guilt-trip shit. She’s wrong. If shit doesn’t work out with you and Damien, he’d never take anything from you. That’s not the type of man he is.”
This is probably the most personal conversation we’ve ever shared. As annoyed as I am that he eavesdropped on my call—well, not exactly eavesdropped since I did have it on speaker—it’s nice to hear someone confirm my feelings are valid.
She’s guilt-tripping me.
I gulp, a tear sliding down my cheek.
The problem is, it’ll work.
There’s this sense of loyalty that will never allow me to leave my family behind—even if it means surrendering my dreams and my happiness.
I’m still in my pajamas when Damien gets home.
I called off work and have been sitting in self-pity all day. My phone sits on the counter with ten missed calls and four texts from my mom. Even though I don’t want to ignore them, eventually, I’ll read and reply.
It’s what I always do .
I must’ve looked super pathetic after my call with her because Emilio ordered us lunch and even watched a movie with me.
“Good news,” Damien says, dropping a manila folder, papers stacked inside, next to me on the island.
“What are those?”
“Possible locations for your studio.”
I stare at the folder like it’s toxic, like it’s what poisoned my dreams. Not my family.
Damien turns me in the chair, nudges my legs apart with his body, and steps between them. “What do you say I take you to dinner and then we look at them, see which you like best?”
I peer away from him, feeling my heartbeat drumming in my throat. “I can’t open a studio, Damien.” Each word stings as it leaves my mouth.
He grips my knee in his hand. “What do you mean?”
Emilio stands from his chair and walks toward the door. He makes a quick pit stop to squeeze my shoulder. Damien raises a brow at the sudden change in our relationship.
“Call if you need anything,” Emilio tells him, as if he anticipates Damien needing him after we’re finished talking.
“My mom signed the paperwork with Cernach,” I say, my voice raspy. “The deal is done. She’s opening the studio.”
His nostrils flare, and he draws back a few inches. “He’ll screw her over. He’ll screw you over.”
“I explained that to her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Did you tell her you’re opening one?”
“I did. She said that if I do, she’ll never forgive me.” I lower my gaze, refusing to meet his eyes, scared he’ll view me as weak. “Because I’ll be her competition and turn my back on my family.”
He shakes his head in frustration. “Don’t let them take away your dream. Don’t let Cernach win.”
My shoulders slump. “I’m afraid he already has.”