“Gianna.”
The hair on the back of my neck rose, and my breath turned to ice.
Disgrace to this family.
Worthless daughter.
Unlovable girl.
Nothing but a whore.
The rattle of a slammed door. And then darkness. A darkness so alive sometimes it touched me. Spoke to me. Hurt me. “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t worry, your papà knows I’m here.”
You can’t scream with a hand over your mouth.
That’s where fiery-haired goddesses are made all over the world.
A piece of cotton floated through the air, twisting in the breeze, before landing in the pool.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” my papà snapped.
Hatred filled me with a searing burn. I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “I’m sorry, I’m pretty busy right now. What did you want?”
“Your cousin Silvia’s wedding is next month. You’ll be there if I have to come get you myself, do you understand?”
Panic twisted in my chest. “I’ll have to check with my husband to see if we can make it.”
“Cut the bullshit, Gianna. Richard already has one foot in the grave. You are coming to the wedding. I’ll have Gina send you the details.” He hung up.
It’d been eight years since I’d seen my father. Since he’d bothered to reach out to me. And while a family reunion should always be hopeful, I could, with a sense of dread, only wonder what he wanted from me now. I had a bad feeling it was about my husband’s declining health and my soon-to-be independence.
I took a deep breath, fearing I was going to be sick right here in Valentina’s pool.
“I swear, if the neighbors don’t do something about those damn cottonwood seeds, I’m going to cut the tree down myself,” Val grumbled, and got to her feet. “I’m going to take a quick break. Do you need another drink?”
A break was her way of saying she was due another line.
I turned around. “I’ll join you.”
Interest crossed her face. “I thought it gave you a migraine.”
That excuse had just been an uncomplicated way of turning it down without having to explain my therapist discouraged drugs.
I wanted to get better—to put my panic attacks behind me, instead of only masking them with a high. But as that phone call filled my mind and pushed me to the edge of a breakdown, all I wanted was to not fear the past in the dark, if only for a moment.
“I guess it’s as they say,” I whispered, “the bee has a sting and honey, too.”
We all searched for strength in life.
Unfortunately, mine just happened to lie at the end of a line of powder.
At the end of the day, I would rather puke in one of my favorite Prada boots than watch Valentina “try her hand” with Allister. Like he needed any more attention—he had an embarrassing number of women throwing themselves at him already. What annoyed me even more, though, was that he’d always been charming and respectful to each one of them, while he regarded me as if I was a liberal helping of chopped liver.
This all seemed to brew in my head like a pot of burnt coffee the entire evening I spent with Valentina. So, naturally, when Christian Allister showed up to the get-together at Ace’s penthouse, looking like an asshole and every woman’s wet dream, I’d shut the door in his face. I told you, blow made me brave. But, sadly, not stronger; Christian had easily kept the door open. And that was when he’d noticed I might be as baked as Celia Abelli’s bruschetta.
It wasn’t like I was proud of the relapse—especially because I’d been worrying about how I would break this to Dr. Rosamund on Monday—but I certainly didn’t care for Allister’s opinion on the matter. I guessed I should’ve known he’d give it anyway. He grabbed my chin, looked into my eyes, and then shoved my face away in disgust.
And now, here I was, stewing in the anger and spite he easily brought out in me.