28. Jackson
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jackson
“What was it like growing up here?” My voice echoes off the high ceilings in the dining room, bouncing around the ten empty chairs at the table.
Blakely shrugs, her fingers toying with the edge of the bloodred placemat. “Like anywhere else, I guess.”
I snort and she looks up, her eyes sparking.
“What?”
“ Like anywhere else? ” I mock, a teasing grin on my face. “That’s a good answer for the cameras.”
Her cheeks bloom pink and I lean in, resting my elbows on the table. “Now give me the real one.”
Slowly, the mask drops, a dark melancholy filling up her eyes. Her entire body slouches, like she’s finally giving herself permission to show the weight of perfection that rests on her shoulders.
She swallows. “Lonely.”
I’m not surprised at her answer. My gut sours as I try to imagine a childhood through her eyes. With butlers and nannies and no parents in sight. With bodyguards and the bitter truth of why they’re needed.
My mom and I may not have had much, but we always had each other, and I’m thankful as hell to know that’s what really counts.
“And what’s it like now?” I ask.
She glances up at me. “ Right now?”
I nod. “Right now.”
Her eyes drill through mine, making my stomach flip and my chest fill with… something. “Like you’re the only person who’s ever given a damn.”
She always does this—makes me feel like I’m the most important person in her world. My heart stutters wanting to jump over the table and hold her, show her all the ways I care. Words don’t seem like they’d be enough.
Before I can say anything else, we’re interrupted by Eric, the chef , rolling a cart into the room and placing two plates in front of us.
My nose flares at the scent, mouth watering as I take in the panko-crusted baked salmon, a creamy sauce drizzling off the asparagus that sits to the side.
“Damn, Eric. This looks and smells incredible. You free to come cook for me too?” I joke.
He smiles and tips his head, his gray hair flopping on his forehead, but he doesn’t answer, just quietly leaves the room.
“Does he not speak?” I ask Blakely.
She laughs, picking up her fork and twirling it. “You may not realize this about yourself, Jackson, but you have a tendency to make people shy.”
Grinning, amusement sneaks through me. “Oh yeah? Do I make you shy, princess?”
She grins, her eyes dropping back to her plate, bouncing from one item to the next. “Sometimes.”
I follow her gaze, noticing how different our meals are.
Did he prepare hers differently?
My brows draw in as I take a closer look. Her portions are definitely smaller, which isn’t a big deal considering she’s half my size. But her salmon looks plain—no panko crusting—and her asparagus is dry.
I’m about to ask her why she isn’t eating the same thing, but before I even open my mouth, there’s a visible shift. I can see it in the way her body tightens, a hazy sheen slipping over her amber gaze. And I can sense it, a tense vibration that thins the air, making everything feel on edge. She drops her fists into her lap and I lean back, sneaking a glance under the table, a lead weight dropping in my gut when I do.
She’s clenching and unclenching.
One. Two. Three.
My stomach somersaults while my brain races through every second we’ve had, wondering how many other signs I’ve missed. Wondering how in the hell I didn’t realize, until this moment, that food was one of her triggers.
“I’ll just…one sec.” She holds up a finger, a pained smile on her face as she jumps from her chair and races out of the room.
She must not go far because even though she’s speaking in a hushed tone, I hear her muffled voice filtering through the hall. “Eric, I just want to double-check, you cooked mine without butter or oil, right?”
“Yes, of course, Miss Donahue. I steamed it just the way you like.”
“Okay.” She pauses. “Okay…I’m just making sure, because I had this thought that maybe you cooked ours together, and I can’t have any butter or oil.”
There’s a lingering moment of silence.
“And the asparagus?”
“Same way, miss.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
My heart falters as I listen to her beg for reassurance over something as simple as oil.
She walks back in, her posture relaxed, as if the confirmation was all she needed to calm down.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She slides back into her chair and angles her head, beaming those bright teeth straight at me. “Everything is perfect.”
I hum and nod, stuffing a piece of salmon into my mouth. But I watch her closely throughout the rest of the meal. I’m sure my staring is making her uncomfortable—I can see it in the stiffness of her shoulders and the way her eyes dart to every object in the room—but I can’t stop, my concern and my questions muddling together until a strain grows behind my eyes.
But she eats all the time. She doesn’t seem too thin.
“What?” She sighs, her fork clattering as it drops to the plate.
I lean back in my chair, relief trickling through me that she asked. That she gave me a reason to press her for answers. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
I gesture toward the hallway, raising my brow.
“Oh, I was just double-checking that my food didn’t have any of the extra stuff.” Her nose scrunches.
“Extra stuff?” I cock my head.
“Yeah…you know, all the stuff that’s on yours. I don’t eat that.”
“Like…ever?”
She shakes her head, sipping from her water.
“So you can’t eat salmon and asparagus?”
“You see my plate. It has the same thing as yours, doesn’t it?” she says sharply.
I lean back in my chair, my solar plexus burning from her tone. I don’t want to upset her, and this is clearly a sensitive subject, but this feels too important to let her brush it under the rug. “It was just a question, princess. You don’t have to send me to the gallows.”
Her lips twitch. “The gallows?”
“Yeah. You know…execution by hanging, for questioning you about your life.”
“I don’t mind if you ask about my life.”
“You sure about that?” My brows rise.
“I just—I eat clean, okay? I exercise. I keep in good shape because my job demands it and also because it’s important to me. I don’t like to put things in my body that aren’t good for me.”
“And what I’m eating isn’t good?”
“No, I—Ugh!” She stops midsentence, her hands ripping at the roots of her hair. “This is why I don’t like eating around people, because nobody understands. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t get it , and that’s okay. But don’t fucking push me, Jackson, okay? Just be happy with the results like everyone else.”
Shock spins through me at her tone and my chest grows heavy. Has nobody ever shown her it isn’t her physical appearance that makes her beautiful?
She’s so much more than what they see.
Her cheeks are splotchy and her eyes run wild, making me worried that if I continue to press her, she’ll spiral.
But I won’t stop watching.
I won’t stop looking, even when she tries to hide her truths behind her lies.