Kate
I had not heardfrom Violet in two days. I’d called her constantly, but each time it went straight to voicemail. She was screening my calls, which was understandable.
I’d sent her a couple of texts, telling her I loved her and that I would always be there for her, but other than that, I refrained. I barely restrained the urge to buy a ticket to Paris to see her.
Two days. Two more days and I would see her face. And if it was contorted with anger or hatred, I didn’t care. I just needed to see her.
Swiss was doing a wonderful job at keeping me calm, distracted, at eating the small feast I had cooked the past two days. I cooked when I was nervous, so the fridge was bursting with food.
Hence Macy arriving to pick up the majority of things I’d cooked that would go to waste otherwise.
Swiss and I were leaving tomorrow. We’d have one night in the suite together to get our bearings. Despite all of my nerves and anxiety, I was almost excited to be traveling with Swiss. To see him outside of this environment, yes, but also to have a whole bunch of new experiences with him.
He was packing. A duffel. With some tees, jeans and one other pair of shoes.
Despite having to rebuild my entire closet with limited resources, I had accumulated a lot of stuff. More recently I had accumulated stuff because Macy, Caroline and Freya took me shopping when my portion of the divorce settlement landed in my brand-new bank account.
My bank account. Under my name.
I was reasonably sure that divorce settlements weren’t meant to be paid out that quickly or a divorce itself was not usually settled in a matter of days. Then again, most divorces were not sped along by bikers threatening to torture and murder the man who was giving up the majority of his assets.
Maybe the Sons of Templar should add that to their repertoire.
I made a note to mention that to Swiss as I ran toward the front door. Unlike Swiss, I did not just have a duffel. I had a suitcase. A rather large one. Mostly because I was uneasy about what I would wear to the airport to see Violet, so I needed a lot of options.
Her entire life, she’d seen me in expensive, perfectly tailored clothing curated by her father. Designer blouses, sheathe dresses, heels. Hair styled just so, makeup light but purposeful. She’d never seen me in jeans.
My daughter had never seen me wearing them. Such thoughts hit me every now and then, the little realities of the life I’d lived that had escaped me when I was doing the big things like running away and falling in love with a biker.
I suspected it would take years for all of those things to stop hitting me at random points in the day. But they were no longer puncturing my skin in the same way.
So my thoughts were on outfits when I opened the door. What best would communicate to my daughter the person I was now without making her mother look like a stranger?
I supposed I probably already looked like a stranger. My hair was jet black and longer, worn in wild, bouncy curls. My makeup was heavier, sultrier. My face rounder because I was… rounder. I’d gained back the curves I’d lost while in the hospital since Swiss had made it his mission to get me looking ‘healthy.’ Every pound I gained was a new part of me for him to worship.
I certainly wasn’t fat, I was the size that my body was designed to be. But compared to how malnourished and small I was before… Yeah, the change was profound. I realized I’d tried to teach my daughter to love her body all her life when the example I’d been setting for her was the complete opposite. She’d only ever seen me half starved.
“Why are you ringing the doorbell?” I asked as I opened the door. “I know you want to make sure you don’t walk in on anything, but—”
I stopped short when I took in who was standing on my doorstep.
“Violet,” I gaped at my daughter.
Shock ran through my system as I drank her in. My little girl. Who I’d been picturing, missing and thinking about constantly.
She was as beautiful as ever but different somehow. In a way I could recognize yet not put my finger on.
She looked positively chic—which wasn’t something unusual, but it definitely had a French influence. The slouchy pants she was wearing clinched in at her tiny waist, stopping at her ankles showing off an anklet that I hadn’t seen before, and Chanel ballet flats that used to be mine.
The white linen shirt she was wearing was crinkled, likely from all the traveling she had been doing, and showed off her generous chest, which too had a scant amount of new freckles.
The diamond necklace her father had given her as a going away present was around her neck, and the moonstone earrings I’d given her for her eighteenth birthday were at her ears.
Her hair was pulled into a loose braid at the back of her neck, accentuating the slim curve of her neck, her delicate features and the faint red gloss on her lips. Her high cheekbones were slightly rosy, and a scant amount of freckles were stark against her ivory skin. Her dark lashes framed the eyes that were her namesake, and those eyes were wide, taking me in as I was her.
I suddenly realized what I looked like. I was wearing worn, ripped jeans, leather flip flops and a bright pink tank that had ‘Sons of Templar MC’ in white, scrawling script. Macy had it made.
My hair was piled into a messy bun on top of my head, and I wasn’t wearing any makeup.