I’m on my way over. I need to talk to you. It’s important.
Mycah stared at the text and debated pretending that she didn’t see it. No, that wouldn’t work. Her mother would see that she’d read it.
She glanced down at her long-sleeved white shirt, black lounge pants and bare feet. If she shoved on sneakers quickly, threw on a coat and grabbed her car keys, she might be able to make it out of the house before her mother made it over here.
The doorbell rang, dispelling that hope.
Shit.
Mycah clapped a hand to her forehead.
Why? Why had she bought a condo in the same neighborhood as her parents’ home? She should’ve taken that cute apartment in Charlestown like she’d wanted. Right. Because of Angelique. When she was her sister’s age, she’d wished for a place to escape to when her parents had become too overbearing. Mycah had wanted to give that haven to her sister. Too bad Laurence and Cherise knew the location, as well.
Sighing, Mycah headed across her hardwood floor toward the front door, the exhaustion that had sent her home from work early suddenly feeling heavier.
Her first doctor’s appointment had been earlier in the week, and it seemed like as soon as she’d officially confirmed the pregnancy, all the symptoms she’d ever heard and read about—morning sickness, fatigue, breast and abdomen soreness—had visited upon her like plagues. Achilles had been supportive: asking questions about the appointment, inquiring about her health, even picking up her neonatal vitamins after work when she’d been too tired to do anything but go home.
But one thing he hadn’t done—they hadn’t done—was resume their former relationship. If their secret, no-strings, sexual arrangement could be called that. Whatever it’d been, it was over. He hadn’t tried to touch her, hadn’t asked to spend the night, hadn’t asked her to come over to the penthouse.
She should be grateful.
Because any kind of attachment other than co-parenting wouldn’t be wise.
And they hadn’t even had a chance to discuss the mechanics of that yet. How he planned to co-parent from across the country. Literally.
Until I’m free from it all.
His words continued to haunt her, even months later.
He was leaving. She couldn’t forget that.
Couldn’t forget the reality of it. What it meant not just for her, but for their baby.
Before... Before a plus sign turned up on a stick, flipping her world on its head, she’d been in danger of forgetting that the “just sex” relationship she and Achilles had didn’t have a fairy-tale ending. Even then, the odds had been stacked so high against them that she would’ve needed an Atlas-sized ladder to see over them.
Achilles’s resenting anything or anyone having to do with the wealthy world she came from. Their employer/employee relationship. The potential damage to her professional reputation if their intimate relationship ever got out.
Still... She’d forgotten the main issue that trumped everything else.
There’d been no “them.”
Because Achilles had never intended on staying in Boston. His home was back in Washington, where he belonged.
And if she were honest with herself, could she give up her career, give up this part of herself for him? She’d been ready to do that for a man before. To place his happiness, his career, above her own. She’d loved him so much that she’d willingly turned a blind eye to his character, even when he’d shown her who he was. And when he’d stolen her proposal for a new diversity, equity and inclusion program, submitted it as his own and ended up receiving a promotion for it? She’d been devastated, damn near destroyed by the betrayal.
That heartbreak had taught her that men, parents, colleagues could disappoint and even crush her. But only she could control if she allowed it. Only she could control herself.
They couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t permit them access to the core of her. At some point in her life, she’d let each of them have that access, and they’d betrayed her. Almost destroyed her. Used her.
Never again.
Achilles hadn’t committed any of those sins yet.
Yet.
But he more than any of those in her past had the power to wreak the worst damage—a damage she might not be able to recover from.
So yes, she was grateful they hadn’t resumed that part of their relationship.
It was for the best.
No physical entanglements meant she didn’t open herself to messy emotional ones. If she didn’t protect herself, no one else would. God knows, history had proved that one out.
And if she didn’t protect herself, then how could she be there for her baby?
The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time.
No more putting off this visit. Hell, the sooner she got it done, the quicker it would be over with and she could return to bed.
She paused to glance through the peephole—this was Back Bay but still not immune to crime and she was no fool—then unlocked the door and opened it to her mother.
“Mom.”
“Hello, honey.” Cherise swept inside, her light floral scent swamping Mycah as she brushed kisses over both her cheeks. “I’m glad you were home. You claim to be so busy lately. Too busy for your parents.”
Guilt Trip 501. Graduate level.
“Your text said you needed to see me about something important.” Mycah shut the door and moved toward the living room. Her mother frowned in disapproval as Mycah sank to the couch cushions, but God, she was tired. And call it sixth sense, but something told her she needed to sit down for the bullshit that was headed her way.
“It is important, honey.” Lowering to the armchair across from the couch, Cherise perched on the edge, perfect and immaculate in an elegant, dark green pantsuit even at six o’clock in the evening. “Margaret Dansing mentioned she saw you and Cain Farrell downtown having lunch last week.”
Mycah arched a brow, irritation sparking inside her. “The eagle-eyed Mrs. Dansing would be correct. It was a business lunch. That’s the important issue?”
“No, I just thought it was interesting. She commented on what a striking couple you made. I have to admit, I agreed.” Cherise toyed with an earring, but Mycah wasn’t fooled by the casual gesture or tone.
“Mother, please tell me you shut that gossip down. For the millionth time, Cain is just my employer. If Margaret Dansing had stuck around a little bit longer, she would’ve seen a couple more people from my department join us. And for the millionth and one time, Cain has a fiancée. One he looks even more striking with.”
Her mother waved a hand. “Engagements end all the time. All I’m saying is you need to keep your options open.”
“Mother,” Mycah ground out between gritted teeth. “What was so important?”
Cherise sighed. “Fine. Mycah, your father and I are worried about you.”
Out of respect, Mycah managed not to roll her eyes. Barely. This “we’re worried about you” speech came about once a quarter. It was a little early, but not unexpected.
“I’m fine, Mom. Now, if that’s all—”
“Mycah, first this insistence of working at all these jobs—”
“Two, Mom. I’ve worked at two. One for seven years.”
“It would be one thing if you at least worked for Hill-Harper.”
Mycah snorted at that. No way in hell. And be under not just her father’s thumb but at the mercy of a board of people who remembered her when she was in Pull-Ups? Zero chance of respect.
“Then you bring home that...that man to dinner,” her mother sneered.
“If memory serves me correctly, and it does, you invited him to dinner, and you did it to be spiteful. Just to humiliate him for the entertainment of your guests.” Fury rose inside Mycah as she uncurled her legs from under her, leaning forward and pinning her mother with a glare. “You and Dad are just angry because he turned the tables and threw your snobbery back in your faces and embarrassed you in front of your guests.”
“As if he could.” Her mother sniffed, picking nonexistent lint off her pants. “He just exhibited his poor breeding and manners.”
“I’m sure that’s what he said about you two.”
“Mycah Hill,” Cherise snapped. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I’m your mother and you’ll show me respect.”
“Believe me, Mom. I am.” She blew out a breath and shook her head. “You and Dad disappointed me that night. Why do you think I haven’t been back since then?”
“Well, the feeling is entirely mutual,” her mother said, voice as cold as the winter wind. “Taking his side over your family. Chasing after him. You barely know that thug and we’re your family.”
“You don’t know him, either, and don’t call him another name in my house or in front of me.”
Her mother’s chin snapped back a little at Mycah’s equally cool tone, then her eyes narrowed, mouth thinning.
“Well, is that how it is?” She tilted her head to the side, studying Mycah. “Are you involved with this...man? Is that why you’ve appointed yourself his zealous defender?”
“No, we aren’t involved.” Anymore. But he’s the father of your grandchild. God, how she longed to say it. But by sheer will she bit back the words. “But he doesn’t deserve your antipathy. You’ve made him a target because of who his mother is and where he’s from and what he wasn’t born with. When, if circumstances were different, given the color of your skin and the country you live in, you stripped away your money and fancy address, some of the people you call friends would talk to you in the same way.”
Face tight, Cherise rose from the chair, anger vibrating off her stiff form.
“Your father and I have only wanted what’s best for you. We’ve tried to guide you in the right direction, yet you’ve rebelled, slapped our hands, scorned our efforts at every turn. Have you ever looked down from your high horse to wonder how that made us feel? You’re ungrateful. Excuse us for loving you.”
With the regality of a queen, she swept from the room and out of the apartment, the door closing softly behind her. Because even in her anger, her mother would never slam a door.
Mycah stared at the empty living room entrance, numb.
You’re ungrateful. Excuse us for loving you.
You’re ungrateful. Excuse us for loving you.
The accusations played over and over in her head like a scratch-free, newly minted record. And each time they rebounded off the walls of her mind, the ice in her body spread a little further, capturing another part of her in the emotional frostbite.
Good. Because she didn’t want to feel.
“Mycah?” A hand cupped her cheek, and she jerked from it, the warmth of that palm almost too much for the cold. She needed the cold. “Mycah?” Another hand cradled the other side of her face, forcing her to focus, to look at the person who refused to leave her in the comforting cold. “Baby, look at me. What’s wrong?”
With no choice, she looked. Focused. And met an all-too-familiar sight. Achilles’s frown. “Achilles?” she murmured. “What are you doing here?”
“I knocked but you didn’t answer. And the door was unlocked.” Reproach colored his tone but, again, she was too numb to take offense. His thumbs caressed her cheekbones. “I called your name, but you didn’t answer. What’s wrong? You seem...off.”
Nothing.
It sat on her tongue, because God. She was so damn tired of explaining. Of saying the wrong things that set people off and hurt them. “Nothing” seemed the safest, but when she parted her lips...
“She called me ungrateful. And maybe I am. I’ve said that about myself often enough. I’m selfish, too. Look at what I’ve done with you. Used you for your body, even though you did some using, too. But we both got orgasms out of it, so I think the exchange rate was pretty fair there. But ungrateful with them? How? Tell me how. By trying to be the perfect daughter even when I wanted to run away to a circus. A literal fucking circus. I was ten, on a class trip, and I snuck behind the tent and was five minutes from sneaking into a clown’s trunk. Only fear of being the circus’s tigers’ next meal made me go back and find my class.”
Achilles choked. “Mycah—”
She gripped his thick wrists, clinging to them as if his solid body were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. “No, I’m serious. By getting straight As and graduating top of my class and going to the best college? Supporting them for years with the job they scorned? I’m not worthy because I don’t have a billionaire husband and head several charity committees and host social events of the year? My ring finger, vagina and womb are more important than my brain. Yet, without me, they would be out on the street. But I’m ungrateful. They destroy me with their criticism. Their dismissal of my successes. Their derision of my perceived lack of femininity. Meanwhile, sometimes, I think I’m strangling from the responsibility of carrying this family and their expectations. And yet I do it. You asked me why I do it. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, baby, I remember,” he whispered.
“Because I want their love. I want them to accept me for who I am, to love me for me. But that means sacrificing my own dreams, my own desires, and conforming to theirs. Just like they’re already starting to do with Angelique. She said to excuse her for loving me. I can’t.” Mycah tightened her grip on him, tugging, closing her eyes. “I can’t excuse her. Because their love comes at too high a price. My identity. My peace. My...soul.”
When the last word left her, she wilted, as if the outpouring sapped the last of her strength. Achilles caught her, hauling her against his chest. He rose, holding her in his arms as if she weighed nothing, and took her place on the couch. And when the numbness cracked down the middle, and the hurt, anger and sorrow gushed in, drowning her, she didn’t fight it.
She sobbed her disappointment, her outrage, her pain, her fear. How long she curled on his lap, pressed against his chest, she didn’t know. But by the time she glanced up, the sky outside the bay windows had deepened from purple to black, casting dark shadows across Achilles’s face.
A chasm of emptiness yawned wide in her chest, but unlike the numbing from earlier, this was...cleansing. Sighing, she shifted, wincing at the weariness that weighed down her limbs. She should get up, move, say something. At least apologize to Achilles for losing her shit, then crying all over him.
Before she had a chance to decide which one to do first, he stood, still holding her in his arms. She gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck, and even that effort was almost beyond her at the moment.
“Bedroom?” he asked.
“Down the hall. Last room on the right.”
He didn’t speak again, just followed her instructions. In moments, he entered her room. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he set her on the bed and left, making his way to the en suite bathroom.
The light flicked on, and seconds later, the sound of running water reached her. Surprise whispered through her, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it because he returned, gently grasping her waist and bringing her back to her feet. With a quick efficiency that didn’t contain sensuality but only tenderness, he removed her clothes and once more lifted her against his chest.
No words were spoken as he settled her in the warm bath, removed the tie from his own hair, gathered her curls on top of her head and bathed her. In other circumstances, she would’ve objected. She’d always been the caretaker, the provider, the one in control. But now, as Achilles smoothed the bath cloth over her shoulders, arms and breasts, she handed that control over to him. Let him care for her. Wash her. Pick her up out of the tub and pat her dry.
When he carried her back to her bedroom, slipped her between the sheets and climbed in behind her, she didn’t protest. No, she welcomed his hard, protective body curled around her. This wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t about expectation.
And as she drifted to sleep, for the first time in longer than she could remember, peace filled her.