I hope nothing’s wrong. If there was, I’d know, right?
After running forty minutes and getting myself together for work, putting on my basic white blouse and black skirt outfit, I rode in the town car to LLL, with Callahan at the wheel so I could work on my laptop. Dammit. This was insane trying to run two businesses.
I groaned, hoping Max would make it back soon—with happy news of course.
“Everything all right, Miss Snow?” asked Callahan from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah. I just have way more work than I can handle. Thank you for the ride, by the way.”
“I don’t mind—it’s what I’m paid for; although, I’d imagined you’d be wanting to try out your new car.”
Yeah, I’d seen the white Porsche Panamera in the garage with the giant white bow on top, and it was gorgeous. But I couldn’t accept frivolous gifts like that—one that had been intended as a wedding gift.
“Even if I appreciate the gesture,” I muttered, “I can’t let Max spend his money on me.” We weren’t getting married. We were…well, I didn’t know. We were complicated. “We’re…friends.”
Yeah, friends who just fucked like crazed rabbits three weeks ago. Then I’d given him a blow job in my office, followed by him bending me over the armchair.
I crossed my legs and wiggled my toes inside my black heels, feeling my body sparking with erotic tingles between my legs. The back of my neck felt hot, too.
I pulled my hair up into a sloppy bun and sighed with frustration.
Callahan flashed a glance through the rearview mirror and smiled like he didn’t buy what I was selling. I couldn’t blame him.
When the car pulled up to the storefront at seven thirty a.m., I immediately noticed a middle-aged, shrill-faced bitch in spiked white heels and a white pantsuit, standing in front of the doors. Perfectly smoothed-out brown hair combed back into a bun, large white sunglasses, and fake red nails as long as my legs told me that this woman was obsessed with image.
Fuck. That’s Max’s mom.
My immediate reaction was what you might expect: tell Callahan to keep driving. But that little fire deep inside my chest sparked to life. This woman, the antithesis of Max, was a cancer on the soul of humanity. She represented everything I detested in this world—true ugliness. And while I understood that some might ask what separated her from her son, I knew the answer clearly. She didn’t care who she hurt with her ideals or expectations. She didn’t acknowledge her illness. Max did. She would spit on someone who didn’t wear the right shoes for the time of year. Max would cringe, but then pull himself back to Planet Reality and feel a little bad about his behavior.
In any case, after everything she’d put me through—sabotaging my relationship with Max, invading my privacy, calling me a piece of trash—I had a few things to get off my chest.
I slid from the town car, and her hazel eyes—same as Max’s but without any sign of humanity—locked on my face, darting from scar to scar. Forehead, cheek, nose. The normal human wouldn’t bat an eyelash since I wore makeup today, but she caught every imperfection.
“Well, if it isn’t Lily Snow,” she sneered.
I walked toward her, resisting the urge to belt her silicon lips and overly Botoxed brow. “Mrs. Cole, what a pleasure. Did Oz run out of flying monkeys to boss around or little dogs to torment?”
Her eyes sort of narrowed, but with so much plastic surgery, she could barely move her facial muscles.
“Shut up, you ugly cunt. Where is my son?”
“Ugly cunt?” I had a nail file in my purse. Those were great for puncturing jugulars, right?
Don’t kill ugly bitch. Don’t kill ugly bitch. Don’t kill ugly…
I placed my hand on my hip. “He’s trying to save your daughter and her unborn baby from dying. Why aren’t you doing the same, Maxine?”
The corners of her lips curled down. “What the hell are you talking about?”
She didn’t know? No. Why would she? Her daughter had disowned her.
“Your daughter has preeclampsia. She’s been hanging on for weeks, trying to save the baby.” I’d read up on the condition, of course, learning that if Max’s sister could make it to the twenty-sixth week, the baby had an eighty to ninety percent chance of surviving. Anything past that had extremely high chances. Mabel, Max’s sister, was at week twenty-two.
Maxine lifted her hand to her overly inflated, artificially puffed-up lips. Tears filled her hazel eyes.
For one tiny second, I felt vindicated—I wanted to see her suffer. But then my heart kicked in, because I sensed she hated herself as much as I did. Nevertheless, this was not my doing, and she did not deserve my sympathy. Not after everything she’d done to me, which only paled in comparison to what she’d done to her children.
“Where is she?” Mabel whispered.