Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

The one perk of having slightly famous parents is that sometimes I know exactly where they are going to be and when. As I stride through the lobby of their gallery uptown, I smile at one of the security guards and thank my teenage flirting skills I used years ago to get him on my good side.

And being the daughter of the artists means I don’t have to have a ticket or reservation.

I just have to get past Enid.

The gallery is in a brownstone on the Upper East Side, which means there’s not a lot of space for me to hide from their bitch of an assistant who will no doubt usher me out if she sees me.

Two steps into the ground floor gallery space, I spot my mother on the opposite side. She seems thinner than I remember. Almost skeletal. Her thinning red hair is styled with wide curls that rest on her bony shoulders.

She’s holding a glass of wine and speaking to a group of people gathered around one of her oldest paintings.

“Of course, the style in those days never quite allowed for introspection. Everything had to be expressed in moderation,” she says in her sophisticated tone that makes my spine tense.

There is a wall between my mother and me. Not literally, of course. A real wall I could climb over. But this one is unscalable. I don’t know where she keeps her emotions, because they are not available to me. Instead of showing me love, empathy, or compassion, my mother appraises me—finding every single flaw or room for improvement.

Once upon a time, she heralded me as her greatest piece of art, but as I grew and stopped being just a pretty thing to look at, I started to feel more like the mess left over from whatever piece of art she was making. The dried paint under her nails. The watercolor stains on the table. The stench of acrylic chemicals.

I was never the masterpiece she once assumed I’d be.

And when her eyes land on my face across the gallery, it’s obvious, and it feels like a gut punch.

“Excuse me,” she says politely to her friends or admirers. Then, with her lips pressed in a tight line, she hurries over to me. “What are you doing here?”

My throat burns, so I clear it. “You don’t return my calls.”

“Well, are you calling because you want to talk to me, or are you calling because you need money?” Her voice is so low I can only make out her words by the movement of her lips.

“No, I’m not only calling for money,” I reply, averting my gaze as I talk.

She crosses her arms. “Then, what is it, Sylvie?”

Just then, an angry pair of heels click against the hardwood as Enid approaches from the next room. “What are you doing here?” she whisper-shouts.

“Talking to my mother. I didn’t realize that was a crime,” I argue, throwing my hands up.

“Well, after the shit you pulled last time you were here, Sylvie, it is technically a crime. You’ve been served a restraining order.”

My jaw drops, and I feel the eyes of the other people in the gallery scoping toward us. “A restraining order?”

My mother sighs. “Against the gallery ,” she says, giving Enid a serious expression. “You really shouldn’t be back here, Sylvie.”

“That was over a year ago. I’ve changed.”

Enid crosses her arms now. “Oh really, how have you changed?”

Avoiding the question, I glance around the building. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s in the studio,” my mother replies.

I let out a defeated sigh. If anyone is likely to give me a moment of pity, it’s him.

“Can’t we just…talk? Somewhere? Anywhere. Alone .” I say to my mother, not bothering to glance in Enid’s direction.

Her breathing is heavy, and her expression is cold. “Come on,” she says without sounding the least bit welcoming.

I follow my mother up the stairs of the gallery to where I know the office is. When we reach the second floor, I spot a piece on display in the middle that makes my heart fly up to my throat.

It’s an acrylic portrait on canvas that was obviously ripped to shreds before being sewn back together. The hazel eyes in the painting haunt me, and I find myself pausing to stare at it. Tears prick behind my eyes, and my mother notices me standing there, frozen in place.

“We’ve made the best of a bad situation,” she mutters quietly before urging me into the office.

I quickly blink back the tears before they can show. Then I follow her into the office.

She closes the door behind me before crossing the room toward her desk. “Go ahead. What is it you want to tell me?”

Everything feels stuck. As if I’m still standing in front of that painting, still ripping it to shreds, still hearing her tell me how disappointing I am, still reading the inscription, still crying in the back of a cop car.

I came here to ask for money. The plan was to beg and appeal to her nonexistent nurturing side, but even I knew that was futile. So what the hell am I doing here? Why do I even bother?

She’s staring at me with a harsh expression as she waits. “Sylvie…” she mutters with irritation.

I look up from the floor and stare into her eyes. “I’m getting married,” I announce.

Her brows shoot upward, and she looks momentarily surprised. “It’s about time,” she replies, her tone a bit lighter. “You and Aaron have been together for years.”

“It’s not Aaron,” I say, tainting his name with bitterness.

“Then who is it?” she asks, letting her brows crease.

I swallow down my nerves. I’m not committing to anything yet. I’m just telling my mother. That hardly counts.

“His name is Killian. He lives in Scotland.”

My mother laughs, and the sound of it is so patronizing I double down. “He’s very rich, actually. Lives in a manor.”

She’s smiling as if this is all a joke. “And how did you meet this…Killian?”

“While I was there last month,” I reply. “We just…ran into each other and kept in touch. His sister was actually just here visiting, and we’ve been setting everything up. I’ll be leaving soon.”

She laughs again. “ You’re going to Scotland? What about Aaron?”

“He’s been fucking Margot for months.”

She gasps at the vulgarity of my language, but I get some pleasure from shocking her.

“Killian loves me.”

God, even uttering those words out loud makes me feel like an idiot, even though I’m the only one in the room who knows it’s a lie.

“When is the wedding?” she asks, and I can no longer tell if she’s taking me seriously or not.

“I’m not sure, actually. But I’ll be going soon, so I just wanted to let you know…” I lift my face, meeting her gaze. “I don’t need anything from you. Not anymore.”

The weight of the stare between us makes the air hard to breathe. I keep waiting for her to let this grudge she’s holding go, but she won’t. Her expression stays tight and guarded.

“Okay,” she replies coldly.

I have to fight the urge to cry. “Aren’t you going to…wish me well or at least come to the wedding?” My stupid, weak voice cracks.

She shifts her weight and rolls her eyes. “No, because I don’t believe for a moment that you’re really marrying some rich man in Scotland. Seriously, Sylvie.”

My gaze darkens. “I am.”

Her scoff is dramatic and hurtful. “This is just what you do, Sylvie. The moment you don’t have attention, you come in here with some elaborate scheme or dramatic story. It’s all so childish.”

“I literally never have your attention,” I argue, unable to keep the emotion from my voice now. My vision grows blurry with moisture pooling in my lashes.

“Oh, don’t be so immature. Just grow up.”

When I shake my head, a tear falls. “I am getting married, Mom. It’s true. I’m moving to Scotland, and I’ll be gone.”

Looking unimpressed, she just gives me a shrug. “Fine, Sylvie. If that’s what you want me to believe, then I’ll believe it. Best of luck.”

“That’s it?” I mumble.

“What else do you want me to say after everything you’ve done?”

After a shuddering breath, I wipe my tears away. “That’s all. Bye, Mother.”

Without so much as a hug or a handshake, I turn and bolt out of her office. I pass by Enid on the main level as she’s talking to the same group my mother was.

“Bye, you greasy cunt,” I call out to her, pleased to hear the gasps of horror as I dash out the front door.

As I huddle against the brisk night air, I pull my cardigan around me and force myself to breathe. With each pain-riddled inhale, I feel the dam break, and my tears form. By the time I reach 57th and Park, I’m crying in earnest.

Everything hurts from that interaction with my mother, but the thing that digs the deepest is her not believing me. Why does that one part feel as if it’s swallowing me whole? She doesn’t care if I stay or go. She doesn’t care that I never feel loved by her. She doesn’t care about me at all, but the fact that she didn’t believe me…that makes my breath quiver, my lip tremble, and the tears flow.

Well, I’ll show her. I wasn’t lying. I will marry that Scottish man, and I will move to Scotland, and I will be taken care of for the rest of my life. I don’t need her anymore.

As soon as I get back to my apartment, my face is a mess with tears. I scramble through the drawer of my desk, looking for the card I left there. For a moment, I panic, thinking I might have thrown it away.

But my heart hammers in my chest when I spot the name on the glossy forest green card— Anna Barclay .

With a nervous gulp, I pull out my phone and dial the international number. Then I check my time and realize it’s already early morning there. Maybe even too early for her to be awake.

But after two rings, she groggily answers.

“Hello?”

“Anna,” I say, feeling frantic and unsettled. “This is Sylvie Devereaux.”

“Hello, Ms. Devereaux,” she replies in her calm and collected manner. “Have you given some thought to my offer?”

I’m doing this. I’m really fucking doing this.

“Yes,” I say with confidence. “I’ll do it. I’ll…marry your brother.”

“Very good,” she replies with a squeak of excitement in her voice. “I’ll have the contract drawn up and sent over today. We can arrange for a crew to put your things into storage for you, and the fees would be covered. We should be able to get the typical waiting period waived and Marriage Notice processed quickly. Would you be ready to leave in, say…a week?”

My heart is pounding so hard that I feel like I might pass out. I glance around my apartment at the various things that I have collected over the years. It’s all just things that have no real meaning to me anymore. No friends to say goodbye to. No family to see me off.

The sooner I’m out of here, the better.

“Yes. Next week is perfect,” I reply.

“Wonderful. I’m very excited, and I know Killian will be too.”

The mention of his name makes my blood go cold. I’m going to see him again. I’m going to marry him.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“See you next week then,” she says.

“See you next week,” I echo.

When the phone line goes dead, I plop down on my couch and stare at nothing in particular.

What on earth did I just do?