On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

She told me that was just terrible and she hoped Donna was doing better.

“Did I tell you what happened to Donna?” I asked later that evening. “About the horse?” And she assured me that she’d never heard the story before.

She doesn’t have a memory deficiency. She doesn’t have Alzheimer’s. What she has is a son, and only a son.

The daughter doesn’t count.

I don’t know why.

I don’t know if she was complicit in the sessions with Reed. I don’t know if Ethan’s illness just made her snap a little bit. I don’t know if she is mad at me for something I did so very long ago.

I don’t know, and I no longer care. As far as I’m concerned, family is what you make of it, and the only reason I’m in this house of horrors tonight is that Ethan is still my family.

I make a valiant effort to describe my assistant duties to my mom, and then give her a rundown on what I’m doing for the resort.

“She’s doing an amazing job,” Jackson says, directing his words at both my mother and my father.

He’s been the perfect boyfriend so far. Staying by my side, squeezing my hand in support when my parents get weird. And, thank god, not saying anything that even hints at my past or those damn photos that he thinks we should show my dad.

Jackson starts to go into more detail about my job—about how I’m juggling my assistant and project manager responsibilities, about the quality of my work and the excellence of my ideas.

My mom’s eyes glaze over, but from the far end of the table, my dad says, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

I turn toward him, not sure if he’s talking to me and Jackson or to Ethan, whose ear he’s been bending all evening.

“Talking about what?”

“What Jackson was just saying to your mother,” he says. “About your job, and the extra time and work to essentially perform two jobs.” He turns back to Ethan. “That’s the way to get ahead. Hard work. Sacrifice.” He meets my eyes. “I’m proud of you, Elle.”

I feel cold. Both from his use of a name I abandoned long ago and from his statement of pride. I want nothing from this man, least of all his validation. And when Jackson squeezes my hand in solidarity beneath the table, I think that I have never been more grateful to have someone in my life who understands me so well.

It’s his support that gives me strength to respond. “But sacrifice isn’t always about work, is it?” I say, even though I know I should just keep quiet. Because silence is the only guaranteed way to keep my emotions in tight.

Except I don’t take my own advice. And I keep talking, the words sort of spewing out as if they have a life of their own. “I mean, some people sacrifice a kidney to save someone they love.”

I keep my eyes on my father and my hand tight in Jackson’s. I don’t want to see Ethan. Not right now. Not when I feel so hollow and raw. “Abraham was supposed to sacrifice his son to God. And in that movie, Sophie’s Choice, Meryl Streep has to sacrifice one child to save the other.” I deliberately take a sip of water, never breaking eye contact. “Must be hard.”

It may be my imagination, but I think I see his upper lip start to sweat. I lean back, feeling just a little bit smug.

“I think I’m going to open another bottle of wine,” my dad says. He’s speaking very slowly and very deliberately, and he is moving in an equally careful manner as he pushes away from the table and heads for the kitchen. “Come with me, Sylvia? Working for Stark, you must have developed at least a bit of a head for fine wine.”

If he’d called me Elle, I think I would have said no. But I surprise myself by pushing my chair back.

Jackson doesn’t release my hand right away, and when I look at him, he tilts his head in a silent question. Should I come, too?

I almost say yes, but then I shake my head. I can do this. I can make it through the night as the dutiful daughter.

And then I can get the hell out of here.

I follow my dad through the butler’s pantry, then into the kitchen. Right between the kitchen and the living area is an archway with an iron gate instead of a door. I follow my father past the gate, then down the stairs to a small wine cellar with just enough room for the two of us and the hundred or so bottles of wine stacked neatly in the sturdy wooden racks.

I start to pull out a bottle, wanting something bold and red if I’m going to be staying for any length of time. But before I have a chance to really start looking, my father speaks. “You’ve been mad at me since you were fourteen,” he says, and I jolt upright. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop?”