“I’m not supposed to marry him until next summer!” I shout. “Next. Summer. Mom, what happens if this backfires on you, and he decides he doesn’t want me in that time?”

She says nothing and my breathing grows rapid.

I shake my head. “I’ll leave,” I tell her. “When you go back to Florida, I’ll be back here, and what are you going to do, come home again?” A humorless laugh escapes me. “We both know how long that will last. You can’t possibly miss work for more than a nonstop flight’s time, can you?”

In my mind, I won, and everything is fine, but she doesn’t look shocked or upset. She’s not at a loss.

I know my mother’s lawyer face, the one she uses when she’s caught off guard, scrambling in her mind for a way to flip things in her favor. It would likely rival the Grim Reaper’s dead eyes, as if she holds a secret that you’re not privy to, as if she already has you on the hook and you don’t know it, but the intense way her green eyes pierce yours makes you more inclined to confess your darkest secrets.

She would have a heart attack if she knew mine.

But that isn’t the face I’m getting.

What I get is a small grin, one that screams what we’ve always known, yet again.

I am my mother’s daughter, and she knows my moves before I make them. It’s all right there, written in the gleam of her eyes.

She lifts her purse from the kitchen table, her nose turning up when she sees the slight ring of a cup shimmering on the glass top.

She focuses on her phone, speaking to me while tending to things much more important, her emails. “You’ll find your keys no longer work, nor your code, and your cards are no longer active. A new one has been ordered and there’s two thousand dollars in an envelope in the side pocket of your traveler bag to use until it arrives on Monday.” Her eyes lift to mine. “The card will be delivered to Anthony’s home, your new home.”

I try to swallow, but my throat is clogged, so all I manage is a strangled, “Mom.”

“Yes, Jameson.” She speaks clear, confirming, “Your account is now joined with his. There will be no more delay. No more freedom. No more ‘Trouble.’”

My spine straightens, my eyes narrowing, and she walks toward the door, pausing as her shoulder passes mine.

Her head turns, and she stares me dead in the eye. “Now, get in the fucking car.”

Chapter 27

I have no voice.

No fight.

No choice.

I’ve always done what my mother required of me, and she always appreciated my lack of emotional connection to, well, everything.

I never cried, never complained or got angry.