His face tightened for a moment, before he shook his head dismissively. Taking a lick of his ice cream like it couldn’t have bothered him less.
But I knew the truth.
Nick had been just nineteen when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. It was fast-moving and aggressive, and no matter what they tried, it wasn’t enough.
She passed away just three months later.
Before she did, Nick had moved her from the suburbs into his own penthouse. The home she’d gotten in the divorce from his father was more than adequate, but he wanted her close so he could care for her himself. A room was made up across the hall from his, and for the next three months—day and night—he never left her bedside.
I hadn’t known him then, but knowing him now—I’m sure he thought that he could somehow save her. That if he tried hard enough, was somehow good enough, she wouldn’t die and leave him all alone.
When Mitchell failed to attend the funeral, the two of them stopped talking. For the first time. It was then that the first true seeds of hate were planted.
Of course, this was one of the best kept secrets on the Upper East Side. People might have guessed it, of course. The general neglect Manhattan’s elite showed for their offspring tended to breed resentment. But no one had any idea how deep it went. Of the sheer animosity between father and son.
Mitchell saw Nick exactly like his mother. Beautiful, carefree, distractible, with a streak of whimsical adventure. Absolutely uninterested in anything to do with his precious company.
And Nick saw Mitchell for what he really was. A snake. A cold, heartless suit who had abandoned his son the only time in his life that Nick had ever actually needed him.
Why Nick called her Sarah, not mother, I never knew. He’d never told me. And as far as I knew, the door to her room had never been opened since that final day. I myself had never seen inside. It was strictly forbidden. Locked at all times.
I had no idea how Ella and Bradley had managed to get inside.
“I can’t do it, Abby,” he murmured, his eyes still locked on the club. “I can’t go back there and see her again. I can’t pretend to...I won’t.”
My heart seized up again with that fiercely protective instinct. The one that had taken over the second I saw he was no longer willing to fight for himself. Only to flee.
“You don’t have to,” I said with a bit more passion than was necessary. He glanced over at me, and without thinking, I placed my hand on his. “You will never see her again, I promise.”
He looked down at our hands for a moment, before offering me a weak smile.
“That’s going to be difficult. Manhattan’s a small island. She lives five minutes away.”
A faint blush rose up in my cheeks, and I turned my eyes quickly to the club.
“...not anymore.”
He looked up in surprise.
“What?”
“What?” I echoed, hoping to divert the conversation.
For the first time since landing in Spain, a genuine smile brightened his face.
“You know that’s like, a fifth-grade defense, right?”
I shrugged stiffly.
“They say children are our future.”
He snorted and turned towards me, angling his body in the chair.
“I’m serious, Abby—what did you do to her?”
I simply studied my nails.
He raised his eyebrows and tried again.