ELLA
It was taking forever for Armand to make it back to my room, and I was getting anxious, worried. What if one of Jackson’s fans attacked him? What if they seriously hurt him? He didn’t have a bodyguard, but we were going to have to rectify that for both of us. I’d definitely learned my lesson.
When my phone sounded, I carefully maneuvered my left hand, using the exposed fingers to move it closer to me on the over-bed table, tapping the screen to answer it and putting my agent on speakerphone.
“Hey, Shelly,” I greeted.
“Hey, beautiful. Feeling any better?”
“Better than when you called an hour ago? No.”
Shelly chuckled. “I’m worried about you is all.”
“Don’t be. I’m in good hands.”
“Armand Daniels?”
“Yep,” I said with a smile.
“You two? Now that’s a real plot twist.”
“Not really. You’d be surprised at how well we match.”
“Hmm, well I actually called you for business this time. I know you’ve a long recovery ahead of you, so you don’t have to do this now, but several reporters are asking to interview you and Armand about your relationship and your attack. So much is going on with fandoms right now. It’s really a hot topic.”
I stared at the phone for so long that Shelly said, “Just think about it. We can talk about it later.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll do it, and the sooner the better. I want the world to see me, broken bones, bruises, and all; just make sure we get the best deal.”
“Okay! I’ll get on it!”
Armand was helping me into a wheelchair as we prepared to leave the hospital when the door opened. I looked up, and my face fell. I’d hoped she wouldn’t make an appearance, but she was my mother. I suppose she felt obligated to come.
She looked beautiful, a mortified expression on her face. Beauty was very important to Esther Reese. It was, after all, the source of her well-being. My looks were important to me, too, but they weren’t my identity. If my modeling career ended, it wouldn’t destroy me. I could move on. I understood I was more than just a pretty face. Plus, my man was rich.
Sighing, I mumbled, “Fuck.”
“What?” Armand said. His eyes found her and widened. “Oh. I didn’t hear anyone come in.”
Once I was in the wheelchair, I looked up at Armand. “Can you give us a few minutes?”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yeah. Five minutes.”
He nodded and left, taking all my joy with him.
She moved closer to me, her tall, thin frame covered in a bright yellow pantsuit, causing her flawless dark skin to glow. She was radiant, ageless, and the last person in the world I wanted to see.
She raised her hands to her mouth as she inched closer to me. “Oh, Ella…what have you done to yourself?”
I shook my head and chuckled bitterly. “Because I tried to run into a pole, right? Why are you here?”
Dropping her hands, she clasped them at her waist. “I wanted to see about you, dear. I was worried.”
“Well, you can see I’m fine. So you can go now.”
“Ella! When are you going to stop this? You’ve been acting out for so long. I miss my little girl.”
“I’m not a little girl. I haven’t been a little girl in a long time. You know when I stopped being a little girl? It started when it clicked in my head that you’d been using me to manipulate my father for years, starting with you convincing me that I wanted to be a part of your stupid reality show, but I came into full awareness when I realized you were using me to terrorize my dad and Jo, something you’ve not once apologized for! You’ve never apologized for anything!”
“Because none of it is true! It’s simply not true! Anything I did was for you! I was merely trying to restore our family for you!”
I ignored those spoken delusions and continued with, “But I became a full-grown woman when Claude DuMont called me with a drunken confession five years ago about how he was my real father and not Everett McClain. That shit grew me up real quick!”
She gasped, her mouth hanging open.
“Yeah, I know. I know! Claude doesn’t remember the conversation. He only knows he called me because he saw it on his phone, or at least that’s what he told me. I’ve never bothered to jog his memory because it’s not a conversation I want to have. Nevertheless, I can’t forget, but him being my biological father makes sense. I don’t look like my dad or anyone on his side of the family, but I am almost identical to Claude’s mother, Laurette.”
“Ella—”
“I know my daddy knows. That’s why he’s still so mad at you after all these years but let me tell you something. My father is Everett James McClain. Period. I will never bring this up to him and no one else will ever know. No one.”
“Ella, I didn’t try to make someone else your father. I—”
“I don’t care. Now, let’s practice. Who is my father?” I asked, eyebrows lifted.
“Everett,” she softly said.
“Exactly.”
“Uh, it’s been five minutes,” Armand informed me, peeking his head in the door.
“I’m ready,” I answered him. Then to my mother, I said, “Leave me alone. I mean it.”
And I did mean it.