Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“Have you seen the scars on his back?” she asks, not looking at me.
“Yes, and I also noticed bruises on his wrists not too long ago.”
She stiffens, her face becoming so pale, I think she’s getting sick. But when she speaks, her voice is strained, as though she’s barely holding it together. “He’s been trained or, more accurately, tortured by his father ever since he was six years old. He’s had to go through physical, mental, and even poison training since he was a kid. And while he’s more independent now, if he doesn’t meet Grant’s expectations, he’s punished severely. I didn’t protect him and he hates me. Rightfully so.”
My lips part and the bowl nearly falls from my hand. “You mean to tell me those hideous scars were caused by his father? What type of father hurts his son that badly?”
“The type who’s raising an heir and that heir needs to be a machine.” A shine appears in her sunken eyes. “Before all of this, Kane was the sweetest boy. He was kind and happy. He felt bad for others and helped them. He played with the staff’s children and gave them his favorite toys. He used to read me bedtime stories, not the other way around, and loved plucking flowers from the garden and giving them to me.”
As she speaks, her smile widens, but then it disappears as the wind ruffles her hair. “But those beautiful personality traits were seen as weaknesses in Grant’s eyes. He told me that his son would not grow up into a useless philanthropist, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. If I wanted to leave, so be it. But I didn’t, and I had to stand helpless as Grant set out to destroy Kane’s soul and purge all those pure emotions until he was as bleak and soulless as himself. And he succeeded. With flying colors.”
A fierce surge of rage floods through me.
I don’t even know who I’m angry at. Kane’s dad or the damn world he was born into. I’m even mad at Helena for not stopping the abuse.
But at the same time, I want to hug her.
I feel like she’s also a victim in a different sense. While she didn’t leave, she also didn’t help.
“I apologize for oversharing.” Helena takes the bowl of food and places it on a shelf under the gazebo. “I don’t know why I feel comfortable talking to you. Maybe it’s because I lost my son, so I’m trying to get close to his girlfriend. If you don’t mind keeping an old woman some company, that is.”
I’m not his girlfriend. At least, not in that sense.
“You’re not old,” I say instead. “And I would love to. You have a lovely place.”
“It’s not mine. It’s Grant’s. Everything is Grant’s. I’m merely an accessory in his shiny empire.”
She guides me to a table under a heated, covered gazebo where some staff are pouring tea. There’s a towering assortment of hors d’oeuvres and pastries.
“I didn’t know what you like, so I had the chef prepare a little bit of everything.”
A little bit is an understatement. She basically brought the whole kitchen to the table; it’s pure European-style afternoon tea.
Which I’ve only seen in extravagant movies.
“This looks amazing, thank you.” I sit down and try not to devour everything in sight.
Manners, Dahlia. Manners. Don’t go showing your unpolished side in front of rich people.
I struggle with the numerous forks and knives, but Helena says not to worry about it and to eat however I wish.
She tells me about the happiest years of her life—since Kane was born—and the saddest—after he was conditioned by his father.
Helena also talks about how the house has felt lifeless since Kane permanently moved out a couple of years ago. Even though he ignored her or treated her coldly before, he still came home and she saw him every day. Now that he’s gone and refuses to keep in touch, her depression has gotten worse.
I notice that she barely eats and the butler brings her medication. He hides the label, but she doesn’t seem to care too much.
Prozac.
If she’s taking antidepressants and still looks so damn sad, it’s serious.
It feels like I’m using her by probing, but her son is a blank slate who won’t tell me anything, no matter what I do.
After I swallow the most delicious muffins I’ve ever tasted, I say, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“That day when we first met, you said I should run away while I can. What did you mean by that?”
She lifts the colorful teacup to her mouth, then pauses. “I suppose I didn’t want you to end up like me. I have no way out, and even if I managed to escape Grant’s sphere of influence, I’d have to abandon my son and live in hiding for the rest of my life. But I realize I was wrong in suggesting that.”