“Other things?”
“A job. Apartment. Money.”
Carly considers my mother’s story for a beat, then shifts through a few of the papers in her hand. “I don’t doubt you know your daughter better than anyone, but I have trouble reconciling your side of things with a story I was able to dig up from approximately seven years ago.” She slides her glasses onto her face. “Your daughter almost died in a fatal car accident on Long Island, correct?”
“She was in a fatal car accident. She was the only person to walk away.”
“And her fiancé at the time, Hunter Copeland, did die.”
“Yes.”
“And Nora was six months pregnant, but lost the baby.”
Anderson grabs my hand in his, but it does nothing to comfort me. Nothing can right now, especially with the grave expression on both Creed’s and Bridge’s faces. I may not know either men well, but I can tell when something’s about to go wrong. That everything my mother said up to this point was simply a warmup.
“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” my mother replies, her tone pinched.
“What do you mean?”
“Hunter’s family was quite affluent. I have no doubt she targeted him, just like she’s now targeting Prince Gabriel. I find it curious that a week before Hunter was ki— I mean, died in that crash, he took out a rather large life insurance policy. And guess who he named as the primary beneficiary.” She grins smugly.
“He was your pregnant daughter’s fiancé,” Carly argues on my behalf. “It’s entirely reasonable to make sure your family’s provided for in the event of a tragedy.”
“I’m not disagreeing with that,” my mother says sweetly, as passive-aggressive as ever. “And perhaps it was innocent. But my daughter never displayed any desire to settle down and get married. Then she’s suddenly engaged and about to have a kid?” She shakes her head. “I struggle to believe the girl who had complete disregard for everyone in her life had a change of heart overnight.”
“So what is it you’re suggesting?” Carly presses.
“I don’t know. All I do know is that when I learned about the accident, I couldn’t shake this feeling in my gut. The car erupted in flames, but Nora just so happened to be able to get out? I saw photos of the aftermath. The car was practically incinerated. Not to mention it hit a tree off the embankment with a force no one would be able to walk away from. Not without help. Yet the police were never able to corroborate Nora’s statement that a Good Samaritan had pulled her to safety. It’s just…suspicious.”
“So is it your contention that Nora…killed her former fiancé, then somehow terminated her pregnancy when she was six months along, all to collect a substantial life insurance policy?”
“I’m simply saying it’s suspicious. That’s all,” she responds, evasive as always.
“My producer discussed with you the potential ramifications for defamation, correct?”
“Yes. And like I reminded him, since Nora can now be considered a public figure, to succeed in any suit, she’d have to not only prove this is all a fabrication, which it’s not, but that I also acted with malice. That’s not my intention here. It’s simply to share the truth about the woman who’s manipulated her way into being days away from marrying one of the most powerful men in all of Europe.
“I’m more than aware that, after a thorough investigation, the police ruled out foul play. And perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it did unfold as Nora claimed. But, unfortunately, I’ve never been able to believe much of what she’s said. If I didn’t come forward and something horrible were to happen to her current fiancé, well… I’d never forgive myself. I want to warn him personally, but I have no doubt Nora’s tricked him into believing the worst of me. Which is why I felt it important to come on this show. To warn him and the entire royal family about the woman he’s about to marry.”
Bridge hits the spacebar, pausing the video, then closes the laptop. “I think you get the gist of it,” he says solemnly.
I blink, processing everything my mother just said on national TV, my stomach churning.
She inferred I killed Hunter.
And our baby.
How could she do such a thing? Why?
Because that’s who she is. Everything she claims about me could be said about her. She’s the manipulative one.
I’m the one who couldn’t bring boyfriends home because she’d hit on them.
I’m the one who had to move from town to town every time my mother’s latest husband realized just how warped and twisted of a person she was.
I’m the one who suffered her wrath whenever she noticed one of her boyfriends looking at me in a way she didn’t like.
Yet I’m manipulative?
“Nora, love.” Anderson’s voice cuts through. “Talk to me.”
I can’t look at him. I’m numb. Sick. So fucking tired of getting close to having it all, only for that woman to take it away from me in a perverted game.
Not saying a word, I stand, practicing a few calming breathing techniques as I walk across the living room. The heat of everyone’s stares prickles my skin, but I don’t glance back or offer an explanation. I couldn’t give them one right now anyway. Not without screaming.
Keeping my head held high and spine straight, as I was instructed in my etiquette classes, I make my way into the bathroom, neither walking too fast nor too slow. I shut the door behind me and turn the lock, the click echoing in the vast space. Then I stride toward the double vanity and lean my hands on the counter, hanging my head.
I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to quiet the rage bubbling to the surface after years of keeping it buried deep within me. I learned early on that my emotions were another thing for my mother to exploit. That it was best to lock it all inside.
But what’s the point when she’ll find another way to get her revenge. To keep me trapped.
Muscles tightening and jaw hardening, I bring my gaze up to the mirror and study my appearance with the same scrutiny my mother always seemed to.
Eyes that are a few sizes too big for my face.
A nose that’s a bit too pointed and could benefit from reconstructive surgery.
Cheeks that, despite the passing of years, are still cherub-like.
Heart-shaped lips that should be a tiny bit plumper.
For years, I listened to her call me too fat. Too skinny. Too plain. Too boring. Too uptight. Too carefree. All I wanted was to rid her from my life. To forget about all the ways she’s tormented me, everything I did either too good or not good enough.
My body shaking more violently the more I recall everything that woman put me through, I scream. Unable to stand my reflection, all my imperfections glaring at me, I grab the metal tissue box off the vanity and hurl it against the mirror, the glass shattering.
A loud knocking thunders on the door, followed by someone trying the handle, but I ignore it, screaming again as I take off one heel, then another, throwing them at the mirror, more glass falling to the floor. I step on the shards in search of something else to throw, the pain on my feet a welcome distraction to the storm brewing within me. I grab the hair dryer and toss it, followed by the soap dish, Anderson begging for me to let him in.