Chapter 8 #2
I very subtly clear my throat, and his gaze jumps to mine. I raise my left brow just enough to show him that I’ve noticed his anger, and that he needs to calm the fuck down.
He sighs, gives me a quick nod, and relaxes a little.
As much as it stings to admit, it’s true that Mave is powerless against my mom. If he wants to stay alive and make sure that I do, too, then he’s gotta keep his head down and try not to get on her radar.
“Cignette,” Mom says stoically, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I blink and look at her again, then send another one of my phony smiles her way.
Mom gives me a calculating once-over, then turns a little to face Julian. “I’m assuming you’ve finalized the croquis for my daughter’s event attire,” she tells him.
Julian’s expression turns slightly ashen. “Actually–”
“We’re still going over ideas,” I cut in.
Mom returns her attention to me, and when I glance over her shoulder, Julian mouths, “Thank you,” to me.
“What do you mean, you’re still going over ideas?” Mom asks.
I rub my gloss-covered lips together and shift from one foot to the other.
I’m not scared of her, per se. I’m used to her, used to all of her expressions, reactions, and actions.
She doesn’t necessarily affect me the way she does Julian and the rest of the people who work at Lure, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to think about everything I do and say, twice, while I’m in her presence.
“Umm.” I chuckle clinically. “I’ve been giving him,” I gesture vaguely at Julian, “a hard time with the color scheme. We were just discussing what shades we wanna play with for this one, so it’s taking longer than expected.”
“We will be done with it before lunch, I assure you,” Julian adds.
Beside him, Melina makes a sound, but then quickly covers it up with a cough.
“See to it that you are,” Mom all but orders without even looking at Julian. She then lets go of a breath and brings one of her hands up to my face.
I refrain from recoiling as her skin touches mine, and my toes curl inside my boots as I glance at Mave, who takes a step forward, but stops when I again raise a brow in warning.
Mom’s hand travels down my face, and she then brings it over to the length of my hair before sliding it down to its very ends. She tangles her fingers in them and rubs them together, and I can hear the soft scrunch of my hair as it molds against her assault.
Her eyes bore into mine, and her features tighten as she just…stares at me.
I think one of the reasons why she behaves like this with me is because she’s jealous of me; jealous of the liberty I have of doing whatever the fuck I want with my life.
She’s a popular face in the media, a woman of power and fame, so she’s got to make sure she’s perfectly poised and cautious, if only for when she’s out in public – which, to her dismay, is most of the time.
It’s been like this for her from a very young age. Her freedom was taken from her when she was a child, and she was forced to be what every woman in our family has always been: a bisque doll – meant only to attract, and not progress.
The Adler name is one that’s been acclaimed for generations.
My ancestors basically ran the county, and even now, my family is at the top of the food chain here.
I don’t know much about my grandparents, because they passed years before I was even born, but what I do know is that my grandfather was an only child, and also Riverside’s Administrator, just like Uncle Chase now is.
My grandma was a trophy wife, but she was also the one who’d built the original Adler estate, which is currently my uncle’s residence.
Uncle Chase and Mom were homeschooled – as was I – and when my grandparents were killed in a rival’s shootout almost 4 decades ago, my uncle was 21, whereas my mom was only 11. They were brought up by advisors and lawyers, and when Uncle Chase turned 25, he was named the county’s new Administrator.
Because Mom didn’t want to be like my grandma, or get married off to a nameless elite for further status and money, she started Lure at the age of 21. She had me when she was 24, and, well, the rest, as they say, is history.
There’s a sharp knock on the door, which startles me a little.
Mom pulls her hand away from my hair, making sure to give it a rough tug as she does, and turns toward the door.
I grit my teeth as pain shoots through the side of my skull, and when I look down at her fingers, I see a couple of long, pink strands wrapped tightly around them.
I swallow my rage and try to breathe in and out at a steady pace.
I feel like despite everything she’s been through, and everything that she has chosen to do in her life, she should at least attempt at being understanding towards my choices.
Instead of hating me for wanting things that she, too, probably once wanted, but never received, she should be happy that I achieved them.
Instead of hating me with her entire being for how I present myself and live my damn life, she should at least take pride in the fact that I haven’t let society dictate their rules and regulations on me.
That I’ve driven down my own road whilst also creating new paths for myself that only take me in directions I wanna go to.
But I guess expecting any of that from her would be like wishing for the sky to turn neon or some shit, so I’ve given up hope on that front.
Steven opens the door and steps back, and a young man – Waleed Najimi, I believe his name is – swaggers in and smiles at Mom.
He’s wearing a greyish-blue suit with a white dress shirt, and brown Oxfords. And, with his dark hair coiffed, his facial hair trimmed way too precisely – along with the Patek Philippe Ref. 1518 around his left wrist, of course – he screams undeniably of wealth and status.
“Dearest,” he says to Mom, then walks over to her. He gives me a brief nod of acknowledgment, then looks at Mom again.
“The new caterers are here,” he tells her in that very-hard-to-understand accent of his.
Pair that with his flat voice, and you’ve got a recipe for an ear assault.
“They have agreed to overtake buffet facilities for the ball, despite the lateness, and are also ready to accommodate our custom menu. If you can spare an hour of your time, I need you in the office with me so that we can go over the specifics and pricings with them.”
Everyone at the HQ knows that Mom’s banging Waleed.
I mean, the two of them have done nothing short of a disastrous job of hiding their fling from Mom’s employees.
At this point, there’re so many made-up, fanfic-like stories about their spontaneous sexcapades buzzing around every corner of the HQ, that it’s physically impossible to elude them.
And, it wouldn’t be such a zit in the ass if that was all I had to hear about the two of them.
But, you see, it is a zit – a massive, painful one at that – because the #1 thing everyone at the Lure HQ can’t stop talking about is the age difference between Mom and Waleed.
And to top it off, they keep adding my name into their gossip sessions.
Miss Adler’s new investor/fuckboy is younger than Cignette!
Oh dear, Miss Adler is getting railed by a 25-year-old petrol empire heir. Talk about being a stereotypical cougar.
Honestly, I wanna know what Cignette thinks of her mother having sex with a guy who’s half her age. Shouldn’t she be the one getting some of that exotic dick instead of Miss Adler?
I know, I know; it’s wrong to shame someone for their sexual preferences. But hey, it’s my mom these people are tattling about, so let’s not jump onto the defense boat here, alright?
Alright.
“Of course,” Mom says in regards to Waleed’s request of assisting him in finalizing the caterers.
He smiles again, and all but glides over to the door before pushing it open for her like the chivalrous man that he is.
Mom chuckles – yeah, she actually chuckles – before striding out of the room with him and Steven without so much as a glance in my direction.
“Typical,” I mutter under my breath, careful not to let the others hear it.