Try to make me cry

Chapter 14

The door hissed open, and the heat hit me like a physical blow.

Hawaii didn't smell like the brochures. It smelled of salt, jet fuel, and a thick, oppressive humidity that made the silk of my jumpsuit cling to my skin within seconds. The sun was blinding, reflecting off the white concrete of the private airfield.

I descended the stairs, the wind whipping my long blonde hair across my face. I squinted against the glare, spotting the black SUVs waiting at the edge of the tarmac. The beach house was a forty-minute drive away—a fortress of glass and volcanic rock perched over the Pacific. My mother’s kingdom.

I reached the bottom step and paused, the heat radiating off the ground through my thin soles.

Behind me, I heard the heavy tread of Eddie’s boots and the frantic, light patter of Bella’s sandals.

I didn't turn around. I kept my back to them, looking out at the palm trees swaying in the distance.

“The car for the Ho family is the lead one,” Eddie said, coming up beside me. He didn't touch me, but I could feel the heat rolling off him, more intense than the tropical sun. He smelled of bourbon and that crisp, masculine soap.

“Your little girl is not coming?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“She’s in the third car. With the luggage,” Eddie replied.

I finally looked at him. He was wearing sunglasses now, his face a mask of stone, but the muscles in his jaw were working. He looked at me, his gaze lingering on the slight redness of my cheek where my mother had struck me, then down to my covered knees.

“Don't make a scene at the house, Maggie,” he said, but it sounded more like a plea than a command.

“I don't make scenes, Eddie,” I said, stepping toward the lead SUV as the driver held the door open. “I execute finales.”

As I slid into the air-conditioned interior, I caught a glimpse of Bella standing by the third car. She was looking at us, her face a mask of pure, concentrated venom. She wasn't smiling anymore. She looked like a woman who had been humiliated and was looking for a way to make someone pay.

The SUV pulled away, leaving the jet and the mistress behind.

The drive was silent. Eddie stared out the window, his hand resting on the seat between us, inches from mine. I watched the tropical landscape blur past—vibrant greens and deep blues that felt utterly alien to the gray, cold world I lived in.

We turned into the long, winding driveway of the beach house. The house loomed over the cliffside, a masterpiece of modern architecture that looked more like a prison than a vacation home.

As the car slowed to a stop in front of the massive teak doors, I saw her.

My mother stood at the top of the sweeping teak stairs, her white kaftan billowing in the sea breeze like the wings of a predatory bird. She didn't look like a woman celebrating a milestone; she looked like a general surveying a battlefield.

I didn't stop. I didn't slow down.

I walked right past the welcoming committee. I ignored the way my father’s eyes narrowed into slits of cold calculation. I ignored the triumphant, sharp tilt of my mother’s chin as she prepared a barbed greeting that I never gave her the chance to deliver.

I glided past them, my heels clicking a sharp, dismissive tempo against the stone.

But as I reached the threshold of the glass-walled foyer, I felt a physical jolt—a sudden, sharp thinning of the air.

The air between the three of us became a pressurized vacuum.

“Maggie,” my mother’s voice rang out, sharp and high, cutting through the sound of the crashing waves. “You haven’t even greeted your mother. Is this the ‘poise’ you’ve been cultivating in the city? It looks remarkably like cowardice.”

I stopped then. I didn't turn around. I slowly reached up and tucked a stray blonde lock behind my ear, my movements fluid and dangerously calm.

“I greeted you the moment I stepped off the plane, Mother,” I said, my voice carrying back to her, low and resonant. “I acknowledged your existence by choosing to stay in this house. Anything more would be a performance, and I’m not on the payroll for your birthday theater.”

I heard the collective intake of breath from the staff. Behind me, I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of Eddie’s boots as he closed the distance.

“She’s tired, mother,” Eddie said. His voice was a strange mixture of defense and ownership. He stepped up beside me, his hand hovering just inches from the small of my back—not touching, but marking his territory. “The flight was… eventful.”

I felt the heat of his gaze on my profile. He wasn't looking at my mother. He was looking at me, his green eyes dark with an intensity that made my skin crawl. He was watching for my reaction to Julian. He was looking for the crack.

“Eventful?” My mother’s laugh was a jagged shard of glass. She descended the first few steps, her eyes locking onto someone behind Eddie. “Ah, Bella! You made it. Come, dear. I have so much to show you. We have business to discuss before the gala tonight.”

I finally turned my head, just enough to see Bella stepping out of the third car, her face restored to a mask of smug satisfaction. She walked toward my mother as if she belonged there, as if she were the daughter returning home.

“Victor,” I said, my voice cutting through the fake pleasantries of the women behind me.

My Head of Security stepped out from the shadows of the foyer. He looked at me, waiting.

“Check my room,” I commanded. “Sweep it for everything. Microphones, cameras, and especially… any ‘gifts’ my mother might have left. I want a clean perimeter by the time I finish my shower.”

“Yes, Madam.”

I turned and walked away, leaving the "Sculptor" and the "Puppet Master" to their games. I climbed the stairs to the west wing, the sound of the ocean growing louder and more violent with every step.

When I reached my suite—a cavernous room of white marble and glass that hung over the cliffside—I locked the door and leaned against it, my breath coming in jagged, uneven pulls.

I went to the vanity, my hands shaking as I reached for the silk ribbon to tie back my hair. But as I looked into the mirror, my heart stopped.