Opulent Obsession – Breaking Belles

Half an hour later, we were seated at a ridiculously long, elegant table, me at one end, Rafe about twelve feet away at the other end. This seating arrangement suited me just fine. Much easier to ignore him if he wasn’t right in my face.

I hadn’t given him much of a chance to say anything to me after I’d gotten out of the shower and dressed, even though he’d tried. But I’d spent most of the last half hour in the shower, then flounced out just in time for breakfast.

I could tell he was steaming and had plenty to say to me, in that Rafe way of his. He had a terrible poker face. There was obviously something he wanted to get off his chest, maybe many somethings, but frankly, I wasn’t in the mood.

The shower had helped my resolve. I was here to do a job and not Rafe Jackson or anybody else was going to keep me down anymore. I was a woman with a plan.

“This is ridiculous.” Rafe finally tossed down his silverware with a loud clank, which I could only just hear from so far away. “We need to talk, Fallon, and I refuse to sit here and shout across the breakfast table.”

I just kept eating my omelet. Whatever he would or would not refuse to do was frankly none of my problem.

“Fallon. Fallon, can you even hear me?” he said louder.

I continued ignoring him. The cook here was excellent. When Mama H came to collect our dishes, I’d have to tell her to compliment the cook. The omelet was mouthwatering, with some kind of fancy white cheese in the middle. A far cry from the Kraft singles I’d toss in mine growing up while Mom worked a double shift because Rafe’s family threw some party and they needed her to clean up after them.

One time when she described the fancy party they’d had and all the fancy food, I asked her if she could bring home leftovers next time. Her face had clouded over, and she’d hurriedly explained Mrs. Jackson preferred to throw out the leftovers than allow the “help” to take any home. Mrs. Jackson thought it would disincentivize them to serve as well, or maybe they’d hold some back, if they knew they could take home what wasn’t eaten.

I stabbed the next bite of omelet a little harder than was necessary.

“Enough, Fallon,” Rafe said, standing up, leaving his breakfast behind and walking down towards my end of the table. He towered above me, looking down.

“Are we gonna talk about last night?” he demanded. Oh, he’d really worked himself up. Good to know some things never change. Rafe could never hold it in long when he was upset about something. It would blow one way or another, and in his repressed fucking family, usually that meant with me, playing rough when we were kids and then later, driving fast cars, staying out late with me, the town goth girl everyone else rejected.

For a long time, I thought that’s all I was—hanging out with me was one big Fuck You to his parents, his one lingering rebellion. Or rather, like everything else, a desperate cry for attention from his uptight family. Especially his mom, who completely ignored him in favor of his so-called golden-boy brother Timothy who Hung The Moon in her eyes.

But then Timothy died. And mommy dearest finally turned her eyes on forgotten little Rafe.

So naturally, he had no more use for me. In reality, I’d always been as disposable as those party leftovers. He’d been using me just like his family used my mother. But at least they’d paid her.

What did I get out of it? A broken heart and a ticket out of town on the first bus, courtesy of his mother who felt her New Golden Child didn’t need any more distractions. At least not ones as uncouth as the undesirable bastard daughter of the help who looked like the rejected offspring of Marilyn Manson and Ozzy Osbourne. I’m sure Rafe got a whole new fleet of fast cars to drive. Mommy Jackson did so love to spoil her favorites.

He certainly didn’t use any of them to come after me, even though I sent him repeated emails in my weaker moments, praying I’d misunderstood things, that it had just been grief for his lost brother that had kept him silent, longing for even a couple of words from him even if they were: “not now” or “I need time”.

But those never came.

Only silence.

“Why the hell are you here?” Rafe continued. There was fire in his eyes. He was furious at me.

I wanted to laugh. After all this time, after we’d had sex for the first time, these were the first words out of his mouth?

“Are you crazy?” he blasted me, so upset his handsome face was getting those red blotches high on his cheekbones I’d always found so irresistibly sexy when we were teenagers. “Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into? You have no idea!”