Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Ellie
The cab pulls up to a nondescript townhome in the West Village an hour after Aubrey’s big reveal.
My sister. My mind is numb, my body moving on autopilot.
I wish, not for the first time, that I had someone else—anyone else—to turn to right now.
I insulated myself, built a nest and made Jack and my father my everything. I didn’t think I needed
anyone else. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Thanks.” Aubrey passes the cab driver a few bills and we both step out onto the curb silently.
I cross my arms over my chest like a shield, as if that could protect me from any more emotional blows directed at me today.
I don’t think I have the heart for any more truths, but I’m not sure I can withstand any more lies either.
I follow Aubrey to the front stoop and watch as she punches a button on a small intercom. It crackles to life when a soft,
Spanish-inflected voice greets us. Aubrey talks into the speaker stating that we’re here on “society business” and the door
buzzes, then clicks as it unlocks. She pushes the door open and we step into the most beautiful foyer I’ve ever seen.
The mansion is expansive—much bigger and more opulent than it looks from the outside.
Dark navy embossed wallpaper stretches as far as the eye can see; rich cherry crown molding and an elegant chair rail offset the decor.
Black and white art deco tiles stretch down the hallway and chic gold frames and furnishings lend the space an old-Hollywood aesthetic that feels lavish and inviting at the same time.
“This is stunning,” I say, eyes casting around the elegant space.
“Why thank you, dear.” Words lodge in my throat when Kat appears as if out of nowhere. “Welcome to my home.”
I nod, eyes wide with shock as she pulls me into a hug. “I’m so glad you like what you see. It will all be yours someday,
after all.”
“Excuse me?”
She holds me at arm’s length, her warm gaze softening with sympathy as she directs her next words at Aubrey. “I see you haven’t
told her much.”
My eyes bounce back and forth between the two women.
Kat continues, directing her attention to me. “I suppose I should formally introduce myself—or reintroduce myself, as it were.” A saccharine smile lifts her cheeks. “I was born Ekaterina Volkov,” she says, pausing a beat. When she doesn’t
seem to get the reaction she’s looking for out of me, she continues. “But you might know me better as Valeria Thomas.”
My heart stutters. Valeria Thomas is my mother’s name. I must have misheard. “No.” I shake my head as shock, doubt, and confusion
spin in a perfect storm in my mind. “No way.”
“First—would you like some tea? I always feel that tea or champagne help a tough conversation go down a little more smoothly.”
I nod, my gaze slicing across the room to linger on the glossy parquet floors. Every cell in my body is vibrating with anxious energy. The urge to turn and run for the door is strong, but my desire to hear what else she might say outweighs everything else. “Champagne, please.”
Kat calls for her housemaid. A short woman of Latin descent appears from a room down the hall. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Magda—could you bring a bottle of Moet and three flutes to the sitting room?”
The shorter woman nods, vanishing back into what I assume is the kitchen.
“Come.” Kat waves for Aubrey and me to follow her. We move silently into the sitting room, where the polished parquet floors
and rich velvet settees offset a fireplace that is nearly as tall as I am. She gestures for us to settle across from her on
one of the sofas. She crosses her legs, folds her hands together and rests them on her knee before Magda returns with a serving
tray of champagne and flutes, pouring us each a glass. “Thank you, Magda.”
Kat lifts her glass in a gesture of cheers. “To newfound friends and family.”
I’m hardly able to hold back tears as I swallow the bubbly liquid.
“You must have so many questions,” she begins.
I nod, at a loss for where to even start.
“First, I want you to know that I would never lie to you.” Kat’s smile feels less than authentic, as if she’s trying to manufacture a genuine sentiment.
I don’t believe her. In fact, I don’t really have faith that this woman has a genuine or authentic bone in her body.
“What I’m about to tell you will be shocking; truth is so much stranger than fiction, don’t you think?
” Kat sips again and then sets her glass down.
I don’t reply. I don’t want to give this woman any more of me than I have to.
“I want to start by saying I know what you’ve been told.” She holds my gaze for a few long beats. “And none of it is true.”
She pauses, waiting for my reaction. When I don’t give her one, she continues, “Your father staged my mental breakdown to
discredit me. He paid a psychiatrist a large sum of money to have me declared unfit—a harm to myself and you. As if I would
ever hurt my own child.”
“Why would he do that?” I don’t bother to hide the disdain in my tone.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Anger bleeds through her words. She sighs, then makes an effort to explain further. “For starters, if he
can discredit me, he doesn't have to pay me a red cent for a divorce. If I simply just . . . vanish, he’s off the hook for
his responsibilities.”
“That sounds like bullshit. The man you’re describing isn’t the man I know, the man who raised me.”
“I understand that it looks that way from your perspective, but the version of events you’ve been fed has been carefully orchestrated,
Elyse.”
“Why would I believe you? I don’t even know you,” I say.
“You have to understand—making a problem disappear for a man like him is much easier than following the regular course of events that most people are used to. Having his reputation destroyed with accusations of abuse and infidelity would be far worse for his business and public persona than having a wife who had a psychotic break. The first would encourage mistrust of his decision-making and ability to lead a multimillion dollar business—can you imagine if the gossip columns knew the truth? He’d struggle to convince investors to give him all the money required to keep his businesses afloat.
A crazy wife, on the other hand, elicits sympathy.
Add into the mix a young daughter he’s raising on his own and you have a recipe for continued success.
People want to invest in a man they like.
Your father is a smart man—the smartest I’ve ever met.
It’s one of the things I loved most about him in the beginning, and it’s the very thing that destroyed me in the end. ”
I don’t say anything. I just sit there in shock. The knowledge that I am related to both of these women is unnerving. Even
more so because they knew. They played me. They withheld the truth and manipulated me like a puppet on a string. Resentment
surges in me. I can’t help it—I feel betrayed. And I feel like it’s my time to do something about it, but what, I’m not sure.
My hands feel tied—but only because I’ve tied them with my own naivete and willingness to place trust in people I never really
knew.
“What are you thinking?” Kat interrupts my thoughts.
I swallow my resentment, as I try to put into words what I’m feeling. “I don’t know what to say, to be honest.”
“That’s to be expected, I suppose.” Kat’s expression is sober.
Aubrey clears her throat, gaze hanging on Kat’s before she turns to me, a look of empathy on her face as she takes in my silence.
“I think you should know something else . . .” she begins.
“Your mother—Kat—” she gestures to the woman across from us, “she founded The Society. She’s the driving force behind our mission.
In the years I’ve known her”—my eyes widen with Aubrey’s admission that she’s known my mother far longer than she previously let on—“She’s always been an advocate for women, but after our father managed to have her committed to a psychiatric facility—after he tried to obliterate her and remove her from society, take her life from her to protect his own selfish interests—she made it official.
Remember I told you that my mom was an intern when your father raped her? ”
I nod.
“She was an intern at Greystone Psychiatric. After Daniel Thomas raped her she helped your mother escape. That’s why my
mom lost her job—helping your mom. She knew your mom wasn’t crazy—my mom had been raped by your mom’s husband so she knew
he was a predator capable of anything.” Aubrey’s features are tight, controlled. “When your mom left Greystone Psychiatric,
she started The Society. She took back her power and went from a fragile victim to a sharp, calculating woman.”
I glance from Aubrey to the woman who claims to be my mother. I have no words for all I’ve been told in the last hour. My
world has shifted on its axis. My life has always been simple and straightforward, but now I wonder if I was merely a victim
of a fantasy that was told to me. My sense of safety was fabricated. My perspective begins to shift as I realize my mother—if
she is who she claims to be—turned her victimhood into something shrewd and dangerous. She became a woman capable of ending
the lives of men.
“How do I know what you’re saying is real and not just more lies?” I finally ask her.
“Do you know anything about your past? Names, histories, and the like?”
“I know some things,” I say.
“Did your father tell you that I was born in a small village in Slovenia? That we met when I was on a visa here in New York working for a modeling agency when I was nineteen? That your grandmother’s name was Valentinja, and that I was born in the same small cottage she was born in—the same one my grandmother was born in, and hers before her?
I was the first woman to leave our village, to come to America; the first woman who dared to achieve her dreams in New York. ”
Tears burn my eyelids as she recounts the few facts my father has always shared with me. “I—I thought there was a fire—”
My mother shakes her head, sadness drawn on her features. “There was never a fire. That’s what your father told everyone—that
I tried to set the house on fire while everyone was sleeping. It was a lie.”
“So . . . you brought me into The Society for what . . . to help you get revenge on him?”
She doesn’t answer, but her dark, expressive eyes tell me all I need to know.
“For all these years I thought . . . I . . . I thought my brain was broken. He made me believe that you and I are the same, that it was only a matter of time before mental illness swallowed me, took
my life, made me . . . unworthy.”
“He violated your trust and I’m so sorry for that,” Kat says. “The truth is that mental illness doesn’t run in our family,
Elyse. The truth is that your lineage is one of strong, smart women who stand up for what’s right and good. Your grandmother
and great-grandmother went against the grain in times when women were expected to obey, and that made them unpopular, especially
among the men that were unfortunate enough to encounter them.”
She continues: “The witch hysteria ripped through Slovenia just as it did the rest of Europe and America, and one of your ancestors was accused of witchcraft when she helped her cousin abort a pregnancy after she was raped by her husband. Your ancestor’s name was Marija and she was tortured and then drowned in the river alongside dozens of other women from our village.
You know, men didn’t burn witches, El—they burned women.
Thinking, feeling, loving women, because they feared our intuitive power.
I see you for who you really are, my precious
daughter, I see the purity of your heart and the awareness in your eyes. The truth is that we are the same, you and I. And it’s time to step into your birthright. Your true birthright, not the lies you’ve been told in an attempt to dim your light.”
Aubrey’s palm rests on my back, rubbing slow circles in a gesture of comfort. “I’m sorry you were fed so many lies. Our intention
isn’t to hurt you, but I know this must be hard to hear . . .”
Kat nods. “Justice is never straightforward. The abuse you’ve suffered runs deeper than you know, and the only way to reveal
it to you was to show you. You never would have believed us if we’d just confessed everything from the beginning. Actions
always speak louder than words, and taking back your power is a messy process that isn’t without casualties.”
“Do you believe us?” Aubrey whispers.
I blink once, twice, trying to let the truth settle in. I finally reply, “I believe you.”
“So you understand?” Kat’s eyes burn with promise. “Why what we do is important, why your next target makes sense?”
“I do.” I nod.
“Perfect. I knew you were one of us.” A slow smile lifts her lips. “Like mother, like daughter.”