His Love (The Billionaire Dom Diaries, #4) Page 2

  I tried to slow my heart rate by taking a breath and planting my palms solidly on the desktop and telling myself another lie.

  Benjamin probably called in sick. There's nothing here to indicate foul play.

  Except a coffee mug, dark rings spiraling downward to document his morning sips—and the warmth that radiated when I hesitantly held a hand over the rim.

  The alarm bells in my head turned to full blast as I tore through papers, shoved the chair out of the way, searching high and low for the button that would open the gate. Beneath the desk was a hitch in the wood and I felt something round and plastic. I clicked it and the familiar, metallic shudder erupted outside. I flew back to my car, barely closing the door before I gunned it onto the property. I left the engine running, bounding up the stairs at the speed of light. While boarding school seemed more like home since my mother barely waited until I could walk to send me away, I still knew every thread of the rug beneath my feet. I could name every artist of the paintings that streaked past as I barreled toward the foyer. I knew the names of the staff that usually greeted me. Greta with her plastic smile and the spark of resentment in her eyes. Mina had hair as black as the shadows she darted in and out of, acknowledging me with a nod before she hurried back to work before my mother spotted her. And there was Miles, though he was let go despite being with our family for decades. My mother punished the staff brutally for any infraction. His only crime was talking to Leila.

  But the house was empty. The sitting room was bare and untouched. The dining room was hollow and quiet. Just as I hit the stairs, charging toward her room, it hit me how the Whitmore estate was filled with things, from tapestries to vases and rare finds, that were supposed to make visitors feel warm and welcome. Yet it was as cold and flat as the shiny magazine pages my mother bragged about frequenting. We were the cardboard cutout of a rich, happy family. A happiness that didn't exist.

  I paused at the door, sweat exploding at my temple as I noted painfully that there was always music flowing from the master suite. Classical music, something visceral and melancholy. I could always feel the longing in the violins, the heartbreak flowing from the brass section. Nothing flowed but silence and I felt 'Mom?' rise in my throat like bile.

  Knocking and protocol was the last thing on my mind. I twisted the doorknob and shoved it open, preparing myself for the worst.

  My mother was draped in her oversized armchair, balancing a glass of wine and a hardcover book, her eyes not even lifting from the page.

  "Jacob, I didn't appreciate you bursting into my room as a child and it's even less endearing now."

  I was frozen in the doorway. Stunned. In some form of shock.

  She was okay.

  Her dark hair wasn't stained with blood. Her perfectly pieced together outfit wasn't in disarray, speckled with red from one of the wounds that peppered her face. The only red I saw was the fire in her cheeks, an annoyance that spread to her charcoal gray eyes as she met my gaze.

  "Did you come all this way just to stand in the door?"

  She was scolding me, which should have been as infuriating as usual. But anger wasn't on my radar. For the first time since I was a kid, I wanted to do something utterly ridiculous.

  I wanted to hug my mother.

  She flipped her book closed with an agitated sigh, dropping it on the antique table beside her with a thud to punctuate just how inconvenienced she felt. "I'm not sure what's going on-"

  "You're okay," I finally found my voice. It was a scraggly, raw thing but I cleared my throat and tried again. "You're alright."

  "Of course I'm alright." She crinkled her nose like she smelled something offensive. "After our last conversation, I was under the impression that you wanted nothing to do with me. Then you show up here unannounced-"

  "Who would have announced me?" I shook out of my stupor and entered her room. When I was a child, my nanny would liken stepping over the threshold to a vampire entering a church. It was forbidden and if I dared to take one step onto the mahogany floor, I'd burst into flames. The look my mother was giving me was enough to engulf me in gasoline and light the match, but I didn't back down. "Where's the staff?"

  She casually sipped her wine and shrugged an argyle clad shoulder. "You should be thrilled since you're playing poor with your wife. We're all equal and all of that."

  "Look," I growled. "I asked a question-"

  "I gave them the week off." There was no twitch, no indication that she did anything out of the ordinary or was hiding something. Which meant she was hiding something huge.

  "You gave them the week off?" I didn't play the game. There was a reason she let the staff go and I had a feeling it had something to do with the reason I was here. "You don't just give the staff anything out of the kindness of your heart."

  "Please," she scoffed, flicking a dismissive band through her hair. "I am more than kind to my staff. You could survey any of them and they'd say I'm a fantastic employer."

  She couldn't be serious. Mile's squirrelly eyes darted through my mind. "Right. Even if I believed that, we both know that you didn't even pour that glass of wine yourself." She probably had to google 'how to open wine bottles if my butler is unavailable'.

  She opened her mouth to defend herself then pressed her lips together and downed the rest of her wine in silence. When there wasn't a drop left, she held it out for a moment, like she was waiting for someone to step out from the wings and take the empty glass away. She covered the misstep with a haughty sniff and lowered it to the table beside her. She crossed her legs at the ankle and set her hands daintily in her lap before she went back to glaring at me.

  "Did you come all this way to insult me? If that's the case, I'm going to need more wine."

  I knew the answer to my question. Deep down, I knew that paying for Brittany to be abducted and sold to the likes of a man like Lars Eichmann was something my mother was capable of. If you weren't rich and on her select list of people that mattered, then you weren't a person at all. You were the help. Or you were just taking up space.

  The damn hope that got me into trouble, that took me to this uncomfortable, vulnerable place had struck again.

  My mother could not operate without staff on hand. She didn't drink before five pm. And she never joked with me.

  "What did you do, Mom?" I hated that my voice sounded like it came from the past. Like it came from the little boy who longed for a mother that never existed.

  She further insulted me by raising her eyebrows in confusion. "What did I do?"

  The little boy was left where he belonged. Alone. The anger that she nurtured came roaring from my lips. "Stop lying to me! Just answer the question!"

  She pressed a hand to her temple like she felt a migraine coming on. "Jacob, if this is about Leila-"

  I rushed toward her, stopping myself at a safe distance. She looked up at me with fear flashing in her eyes which cut as deeply as if she'd struck me. Did she really think I'd hurt her? That I was the kind of man that would ever hurt a woman, most of all my own mother?

  Instead of dwelling on the fact that she truly didn't know me at all, I used the fear that made her shrink back in the chair as I leaned in and made my words crystal clear. "What did you do?"

  She bit her lip nervously. In her eyes, I was something rabid and dangerous—and she wanted to choose her next move very carefully.

  "I did what any mother would do," she said finally, fumbling with her pearl earring. Spinning it round and round like she was trying to make some sort of silent wish that would make me disappear...and she could go back to her wine and book and lies.

  Like she realized that she was showing every hand in her deck, which was unacceptable, a calm rushed over her. She dropped her hand back to her lap and raised her chin. The look in her eyes sent shards of ice right through my chest. She killed me with her glare and had the audacity to utter, "I did it for you, Jacob."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "Are you sure you don't want something to drink?"
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br />   It was the third time she'd asked me that question, and my answer remained the same.

  "No."

  I'd spoken too soon—my mother clearly wasn't as dependent as I thought. After pretending that she was finally looking out for my interests in her own twisted way, she'd made a beeline for the kitchen, glided down the stairwell to the wine cellar, and reappeared with a bottle of Malbec in hand.

  I winced inwardly while I watched her fill her glass to the brim, but I gave nothing away. If my mother taught me anything, it was the importance of being cold and calculating if you wanted the truth. Any sign of worry or concern would just lead to more lies. Or more booze.

  A part of me wondered if I should go back to playing bad cop since she was slipping back into the Alicia Whitmore I knew all too well, despite her actions contradicting everything I knew. She was giving me 'everything is normal' at every turn. Pulling out plates for us both, piling the plates with Brie and crackers and fresh fruit and vegetables. She asked me if I wanted a drink a third time and barely flinched when I spat out another no. Instead, she calmly strode to the refrigerator and returned with a Pellegrino. When she slid onto one of the bar stools that had never been more than decoration and pushed the plate toward me like we just hung out at the island in the kitchen all the time, I'd had enough.

  "I'm not sure what's going on-"

  "I'm not too sure myself. You're gaping at me like I'm growing some limb out of my forehead." She bit into her carrot.

  Frustration pulled both hands to my head as I gripped tufts of my hair and let out a groan. It was a futile move, a move that fed into exactly what she wanted. If we spent our time going around in circles, then we wouldn't address the real issue here. But every crunch of her goddamn carrot just grated on every last nerve in me. It was nails on the chalkboard; her manipulative way of playing games and poking at me until I'd had enough and just stormed from the house like a petulant child.

  I slowly lowered my hands, the truth behind her actions finally sinking in. It was an infusion of truth, a sharp ache followed by a uncomfortable fact snaking its way through my veins. It dimmed the anger and quelled the frustration. I thought the mask was her way of keeping me out; of shutting down any and all attempts at having a real conversation. But that was just one of many tricks in her toolbox. Letting the staff go, drinking at 10 AM, traipsing around the kitchen like that was normal when I could count on one hand the times I'd seen her doing anything domestic—it was all a ploy to make me focus on her odd behavior. She'd continue to act like everything was fine, painting me as the odd ball. The bully who yelled while all she was doing was having a carrot and a little wine. Predictably, I'd blow up, convinced that we couldn't carry on a conversation, and leave her be. It was the ultimate manipulation. And now that I knew her strategy, I could play the game too.

  "Actually, I will have some wine."

  Surprise lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow, but she pulled a tight grin across her face. "Coming right up."

  I waited until she slid off of the stool to reach for her glass. "I'll just have some of yours." I smiled on the inside as she froze like a deer in headlights, horror rounding her scarlet lips as I brought the rim to my mouth. My mother was a slave to manners; any sign of impropriety was an affront to her upbringing. If it was utterly out of character for her to make her own meals and pour her own wine, it was downright barbaric for me to reach across the bar and drink from her glass.

  And I did more than sip. I guzzled half of the glass. I locked my gaze on her as I nonchalantly pushed the glass back to its position beside her fruit and cheese plate. "The wine is absolutely delicious. Thank you for sharing."

  She tugged on the sweater knotted around her shoulder like it was a noose. She was so uncomfortable that she looked one breath away from crawling out of her skin. "Let me grab you your own glass. And a plate so we can share this—Jacob, what are you doing?"

  I took a satisfied bite of one of her carrots, chewing it like it was a perfectly prepared bite of filet mignon. I let her stew, all those well bred features of hers going sour. Her forehead was creased with worry lines. Her petite nose called to mind images of a bull with red in its sights, nostrils flaring angrily. Her cheeks flushed indignantly, as red as the strawberries that I swiped and bit into while her lips pulled downward into a frown. The disgust on her face was palpable and besides the confession she'd given upstairs, it was the closest thing to an authentic reaction that she'd ever shared with me.

  When I reached for her wine glass she practically dove on top of the bar, snapping at me like a dog protecting his food.

  "I know it's been awhile, but I taught you better manners than-" She shuddered when I stole a second carrot. "This," she spat out.

  "You've taught me a great many things." I poked her a little harder, not waiting until I was finished chewing to finish my sentence. "I." Crunch. "Didn't." Chew. "Come." Crunch—her head looked seconds away from exploding. "Here for a lesson in etiquette." She was still standing beside the bar, watching me eat and drink like I doing something nefarious. It would have been comical if it wasn't so sad. If she could spare the tiniest sliver of the energy she devoted to appearances to being a good mother, to being a good person, I probably wouldn't be sitting on this stool, chomping on a carrot just to get a reaction.

  I think she got the point, so I dusted off my hands and I went serious. "When I drove up here and there was no one at the gate, then pulled around the driveway and dashed into an empty, quiet house, I thought that you were dead."

  "Dead?" She repeated the word like it was profane. "Why on earth would you think I was dead?"

  I didn't have the energy to tell her to cut the crap. I couldn't even wrangle the energy required to curve my brows in disbelief and slight my lips like we both knew she was full of it. My lack of a reaction was a good call because she just sighed and slid back onto the stool.

  "You thought I was dead because your brother was finally making good on his promise to destroy all things Whitmore."

  Close, but no dice.

  I blinked. Waiting.

  She squirmed in her seat, waiting for me to cut her loose. To say the words so she didn't have to say them. It wasn't going to work this time.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits as she tried to give me the anger that would ignite my own anger and save her from owning up to her role in this whole mess. I didn't give her the satisfaction of my anger. She didn't deserve it—and I deserved the truth. Cole deserved the truth. Brittany deserved the truth.

  "Cole must have come to you." She dropped the anger and the defensive set of her shoulders, defeated. "He told you what happened with his sister."

  "Oh, he didn't have to tell me." I surprised us both by keeping my voice calm and measured. "I saw what happened to his sister with my own eyes."

  I wanted to believe she really cared when her hand snatched to her mouth and she hitched a breath, but it was exactly how I expected her to react. It was how a kind and caring person would react. The sad fact remained that my mother was not kind nor caring. How could she be? I'd gone to The Estate, a fancy name for a nightmare. A brothel where women were bought and sold and treated like nothing but tools for debauchery and cruelty. My mother was many things—stupid was not one of them. Her little plot took research and a great amount of effort to make contact with Eichmann, pass ️whatever test he required to weed out sabotage and cops. A simple Google search flooded the computer screen with story after story of the living hell he put women through. She'd paid the money to pluck Brittany up and root her in a place where unspeakable things were done to her. Despite what she did to Leila, I still had some humanity left. Some ounce of compassion. My mother didn't get to play human now and act appalled. That ship had sailed.

  When she realized I didn't buy her reaction, she lowered her hand slowly. Her eyes didn't meet mine. I wondered if she felt any sense of shame over what she'd done, but I was making all sorts of leaps and bounds in regards to understanding my mother. I had a sick feeling tha
t she had something in common with Brittany. She was a sociopath. Sociopaths couldn't feel shame or remorse or empathy.

  I had to steady myself, cement my cold expression on my face so she didn't see the pain. It all made sense—why she could never give me the love I needed. How she could treat people like they were little more than robots. How she could, in good conscience, send a girl to the clutches of a monster.

  Because she was a monster.

  She always had been.

  I felt sick to my stomach. Everything in me wanted to run. To leave her to her fate. But I was glued to my chair.

  "You're my son," she said simply. "There's nothing, and I mean nothing that I don't know about you."

  I heard the ‘wink, wink’ behind her words and it just sent another wave of nausea through me. So she knew about my tastes in the bedroom too. Fantastic.

  "Your wife may have wanted to forgive and forget after what that little miscreant did to her-" She paused, anger tearing through her face and spilling from her lips. "All the money they stole! What is it about people these days that makes them feel like they are entitled to something? What happened to good old fashioned hard work?"

  The snort ripped its way from my mouth. I should have let the comment sail right on past me. At this point, I had a feeling that there was no reaching her. No hope. But I couldn't not call her on it. "All this?" I gestured around us. "You didn't build this. You were born with money. You married money-"

  "So you're better than me?" She tossed her napkin over her uneaten food.

  'Yes' was the first word that came to mind, but it wasn't the point. We weren't here to talk about her lack of awareness of her privilege. "You sold someone. You're no better than Eichmann."

  She waved her hand through the air like she was clearing away smoke or some offensive odor. "If there's one thing I can't stand it's weakness, Jacob. Your father was weak and for too many years, I let him make me weak." She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin like a queen about to make some grand proclamation. "What I did was justice. I righted the scales."