2. Delilah
Chapter 2
Delilah
I glance down at my sister’s Facebook post one more time, flicking through the images because I obviously like to torture myself.
The sight of them together makes my stomach lurch, and the tears return. As if what they have done isn’t bad enough, her need to flaunt it all over her page—knowing full well I’d see it—is just another blow to my already-fragile heart.
In one photo, she’s sitting on Kayne’s lap, whilst his large hands firmly cup her ample bikini-clad double-D bosom—they were a graduation gift from my parents. At her request, I might add.
I got a ten-year-old Mazda when I finished high school, but I’m not complaining. It was cheaper and far more practical than a set of new boobs.
My parents aren’t rich by any means, so I was grateful. The car has served me well and gets me from A to B most of the time. It’s currently sitting in the driveway unregistered, though—due to my limited funds—but as soon as I can get some money behind me again, she’ll be back on the road .
We may have grown up in the same house, but Abigail and I are from two different worlds and have never been close—despite my countless attempts to form a bond with her. That being said, I never expected something like this from her. I’m still struggling to wrap my head around what she’s done.
She’s even more cold-hearted and calculated than I ever let myself believe. She can have any guy she wants, but naturally, she’d rather mine.
Kayne isn’t innocent in this scenario either. He’s a dirty, rotten snake. He constantly whined about what a bitch my sister was over the four years we were together, but I guess that wasn’t enough to stop him from sticking his dick in her.
Sniffling, I use the sleeve of my pyjama top to wipe the tears from my eyes, and as I’m attempting to log out of Facebook—while seriously thinking about deleting my account—I get a friend request notification.
“Dear God, please don’t let it be from Spencer Prescott,” I whisper into the darkness. I’ve already humiliated myself in front of that man.
He was the one part of the equation I neglected to think out properly when I made the irrational decision to put up that ridiculous status. I had one goal in mind, and that was to make my sister jealous.
I tentatively click on the request, only to find something far worse than I feared … it’s not from him, it’s from Eloise Prescott … his mother.
Violently tossing myself back onto the mattress, I pick up the pillow from my bed and cover my face with it, screaming into the fabric. My parents are still asleep, and the last thing I want to do is wake them. They’re only going to tell me to suck it up, move on with my life, and let my sister be happy .
With my fucking fiancé!
I once treasured this family unit, but I’m now left pondering if I even want to be a part of this madness.
Yes, my sister is a manipulating C U Next Tuesday, and like me, my parents have been subjected to years of her manipulation and conditioning, but come on, where is my shoulder to cry on … my fucking cheer squad?
I should be able to sit at the kitchen table and cry, scream, and drown in a glass of wine—or twenty—while my mother consoles me and my father heads out to his garden shed to sharpen the prongs on his pitchfork.
They weren’t exactly pleased when I first came home a blubbering mess, but after speaking with the devil herself, they said they could see both sides of the story. Are you kidding me? Your eldest daughter is a fiancé-stealing, two-bit dirty hoe. End. Of. Story.
Kayne’s parents weren’t much better. Their only child couldn’t do any wrong in their eyes, and they had the audacity to tell me, “He mustn’t have been happy with you, Delilah. If he had, he wouldn’t have felt the need to look elsewhere.” Where were their bible-bashing values when their son committed adultery?
The past month has been hell. I feel like I’m living in some kind of alternate universe. One where everybody I once held dear is now suddenly my enemy.
In all fairness, Kayne probably didn’t stand a chance once my sister set her sights on him. When Abigail St. James wants something, she gets it.
I’m the innocent party here, the person who has been wronged in the worst possible way, but I’m left feeling like the problem. In the deepest depths of my soul, I know I’m not the bad guy. Why couldn’t the people who mattered to me most see that?
Puffing out a breath of air, I sit up and look down at my screen again. It’s time to face the music with Mrs Prescott. The sooner I sort this shit out, the quicker I can put it behind me and move on.
It’s not like my day could get any worse, right?
I side-eye the chauffeur who picked me up in the black limousine thirty minutes ago, as I follow him into the fancy downtown restaurant with so much trepidation my hands are trembling by my sides. What was I thinking? I can’t believe I agreed to this. Being here is liable to make this already-messy situation … messier, but in the brief exchange I had with Spencer’s mother via Messenger, I quickly realised Eloise Prescott can be very persuasive.
Has she brought me here to vet me? Is she going to rake me over the coals once she learns the truth? It would’ve been a lot safer for me to make my confession via a keyboard, rather than face-to-face.
“Mrs Prescott,” the chauffeur says, coming to a stop in front of one of the private tables in the rear of the restaurant, “I collected Miss St. James as you requested.”
“Thank you, Jamison.”
I have yet to lay eyes on the woman since I’m currently hiding behind her driver like a coward.
I swallow thickly when he takes a step to the side, revealing me from my hiding spot. I’m nibbling on my lower lip, and my eyes are wide, like a deer caught in the headlights.
Eloise Prescott is not at all like I imagined. Well, if I’m being honest, I never really imagined anything where she’s concerned … except maybe why she was so insistent that we meet.
She’ s stunning, though, with her flawless skin and a stylish dark bob. Her hair is so shiny it gleams under the lighting. You only have to look at her son to know he was created from the finest gene pool, but I’m surprised by how young she looks, considering she is the mother of a grown man. She could easily pass as her son’s older sister.
Has she had work done? More than likely. It’s not like she can’t afford it. She not only has a chauffeur who drives her around, but she also brunches at Michelin-star restaurants. And from the little I know about Spencer, he’s a gazillionaire.
I had to borrow a hundred dollars from my father before Jamison arrived … I can only hope it’s enough to cover my portion of the bill.
The moment our eyes meet, Eloise Prescott stands. “Delilah, sweetheart, I’m so pleased you could make it.”
Taking a step forward, she grasps my shoulders and leans in for an air kiss on each cheek. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Prescott,” I say.
When she draws back, she tenderly runs her hand over the length of my blonde hair. “You’re even prettier in real life. My son has good taste, and you two are going to give me the most gorgeous grandbabies.”
Grandbabies!
This is way worse than I thought, and those words have me swaying on my feet. The sparkle in her eyes and the genuine smile curving her lips only seem to validate her words … words which are now sitting at the base of my stomach like a heavy block of lead. I hate that I’m going to disappoint her when I reveal the truth.
“I’ve been pestering him to settle down for years, so to say I’m thrilled about this union would be an understatement. He works far too hard, don’t you agree?”
I wince instead of replying because I have no clue what her son does and doesn’t do. When Abagail used to go on and on about Spencer Prescott at the dinner table, I’d tune her out.
I’m about to devastate this poor woman and I feel awful about it because she seems so lovely. This stupid hole I’ve dug myself into is getting deeper by the second.
Mrs Prescott retreats a step and gestures to the seat opposite hers. “Sit, dear.”
I do as she asks, but I don’t intend to drag this out any longer than necessary. She thinks she’s dining with her son’s future baby momma and now I want to hurl.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks, signalling for the server.
Is it too early to order some hard liquor?
“Maybe you should hear me out before we order. You might not be so willing to share a meal with me once I tell you what’s actually going on here.”
“Nonsense,” she says with a flick of her wrist, and the gigantic diamond adorning her finger sparkles just like her hair does. “I hate eating alone, so I’m grateful for the company.”
“None of this is what you think, Mrs Prescott.”
“Call me Eloise, please … Mrs Prescott sounds so formal, and we’re practically family now,” she declares, reaching across the table to place her perfectly manicured hand on top of mine. “Let’s order you a drink and then we can talk.”
When the server approached our table to take my drink order, I’d asked for a simple glass of water … I even specified from the tap. I wanted nothing fancy, like sparkling, filtered, or purified water that someone had ha nd-collected from a natural spring high in the Himalayan Mountains. I only had a hundred dollars, and I wasn’t about to waste it all on my drink.
Of course, Eloise had interjected with another wave of her hand, and a curt, “Nonsense, bring her a glass of what I’m having.” Which turned out to be a Champagne Mimosa and just what my measly budget couldn’t afford.
It was at that moment that I resigned to the fact I’d be staying behind after this very humiliating and awkward encounter to wash dishes to pay for my portion of brunch.
That sentiment was only amplified when I was informed that Eloise had ordered the food ahead before my arrival. And since she was unaware of my likes and dislikes, she’d ordered several dishes.
Each dish was explained in exquisite detail as it was placed down in the centre of the table.
Yarra Valley rainbow trout caviar served on toasted nori with avocado, kosho puree, and sour cream.
Hiramasa kingfish with warrigal green curry, hung yoghurt, lemon myrtle oil, and fried curry leaf.
Pumpkin and miso cream, pickled muntries, and soy-roasted pepitas served in a chickpea tart.
Fried duck nduja, sweet corn custard, tarragon mayonnaise, and sunrose.
Brioche-style sourdough made on flour from Simon Doolin North Star, fermented for 48 hours, served with butter cultured from sour yoghurt and topped with native pepper berries from Tasmania and Olsen’s sea salt.
I eyed each one with scepticism and internally noted that I’d possibly be spending the rest of the year repaying my lunch debt.
It was all plated up beautifully and looked way too pretty to eat, but if I’m being honest, none of it sounded appealing to me. I didn’t even know what half of those ingredients were. I’d grown up in a blue-collar family that usually dined on simpler meals, like Spaghetti Bolognese, chicken or steak dishes accompanied by mashed potatoes and veg, and the occasional bowl of soup.
Despite this, I’d done my best to remain polite and ate every small portion the server had placed on the fine China dish in front of me. Surprisingly, it all tasted delicious. Since I was possibly going to owe my firstborn to this fine establishment in lieu of payment for my meal, I was glad it was at least enjoyable.
I dragged out the eating portion of our brunch date as much as I could, but before I knew it, the time I’d been dreading was upon us.
Eloise eloquently dabbed the corners of her mouth with the white linen napkin before saying, “Now, darling, what is it you wanted to tell me?”
I fidgeted in my seat as both of my hands moved to my lap. As nervous as I was, I straightened my shoulders, tipped my chin, and just blurted it out. “I’m not dating your son. I only put up that status to get back at my sister for stealing my fiancé.” When she grimaces, I bow my head. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I acted impulsively when she posted pictures of the two of them on what was supposed to be my honeymoon. ”
“Sweetheart,” she says, placing her hand back on top of mine. “Believe me, I get it. My husband left me for a woman a few years younger than Spencer. When it first happened, I was devastated, so I learned to refocus my grief.”
“Towards what?”
“Revenge.”
My eyes slightly widen. “Did you ever get to exact that revenge?”
When a devious smile lights her face, I know she did. “My husband always wanted Spencer to join the family business, but it wasn’t something he was particularly interested in. His father was always tough on him, so when he was growing up, they butted heads.
“While Spencer was in college, his father offered him twenty-five percent of the company to sweeten the deal. It worked. I was pleased with that because it was his lineage, so he needed to get to know the business from the ground up. After all, it was going to be all his one day.
“Spencer loved working there, but not alongside his father. He could be extremely cruel and didn’t like that our son was a visionary, and smarter than him. He was constantly undermining him in front of everyone. The poor boy put up with it for years before he’d finally had enough. It was also around the time his father left me for the woman who would eventually become his child bride. God rest his soul.”
“Oh, my God! He remarried, then died?”
Eloise throws back her head and laughs. “You are too adorable for words, Delilah. Unfortunately, no, that son of a bitch is still living, but he’s dead to me.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Money and power meant everything to that man,” she continues, flicking her diamond-covered hand around in the air. “so although I needed nothing from him—I have plenty of my own money—I hit him where it hurt … in the hip pocket. I took half of everything, including thirty-seven-point-five percent of the company he still owned, and then I sold my shares to Spencer for a dollar. My ex-husband and his incompetent lawyer tried hard to block the transition, but we ultimately won. My son took over as CEO the day the papers were signed. He was the better man for the position anyway. The company now has record profits and has grown expansively under Spencer’s rule. His father abhorred change, but technology is always advancing, and if you don’t keep up, you get left behind. That’s where the company was heading until my son took charge.”
Smiling, I lift my glass and clink it with hers. “Revenge, a dish best served cold.”
“I’ll drink to that,” she replies with a sheepish grin.