The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

Once he’d realized Mother was truly uninterested in talking things through, he had retreated to his current state of shambles, hardly leaving his own room.

And that, I realized, was the difference between this time and all the others. Normally, my parents entered this tango, a dance of sorts; it was difficult to follow and only they knew all the moves to it.

My father would screw up, my mother would get mad, and he would win her back. Snatch her into alcoves in the house or steal her away to the butterfly garden, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. He would court her. Make her feel desirable. Shower her with gifts and compliments. Send heated looks from across the table at dinnertime. Watch as she chipped before breaking completely and taking him back. Then he’d whisk her off on a lengthy vacation, make all these promises they both knew he couldn’t keep, and superglue their relationship back together, even though it had chunks missing and was hollow from within.

Only this time, it hadn’t worked. Da had been poisoned. He blamed my mother. My brothers suspected her, too. I guess Mother had decided she’d had enough and cut them out of her life. She refused to see Cillian and Hunter whenever they visited.

Which brought us to where we were now.

To the annual charity event my mother hosted.

“Aisling, could you be a darling and ask your brothers to go say hi to Mr. Arlington? He made such a substantial donation to our charity tonight, and I know he’s been vying for Cillian’s attention for a long time. He needs advice about his new offshore company.” Mother elbowed me sharply as we stood in the ballroom of the Bellmoor, a boutique hotel in the West End.

The room glimmered in French neoclassical style—all cream, gold and ornate chandeliers, and an Instagrammable stairway with golden railings.

Guests trickled in and out, drinking champagne and laughing loudly as they looked for their designated tables. Businesspeople mingled with each other, the men in tuxedoes, the women in elaborate ball gowns. Jane Fitzpatrick had an impeccable track record of throwing lavish parties, from debutante balls to charity events, and this one was no different, even if she knew her peers never quite recovered from the last headline her husband was responsible for.

My mother was the director of The Bipolar Aid Alliance, a nonprofit charity group, for which she threw events often. She wore a dignified gray dress, her hair pinned up in a bun. We had never spoken about the fact she had chosen this particular charity, above all others, to give all her attention and resources to, but I knew it was telling.

I’d come to learn nothing about my mother’s behavior was accidental. She was a calculated woman, and Cillian and I inherited that trait from her.

“I will, but for the record you’ll have to talk to them at some point,” I chided her, toying with my velvet gloves.

She stuck her nose in the air, examining her manicured fingernails.

“Have to? I doubt it. I have to speak to my banker at some point to settle everything ahead of the divorce. And my landscaper—the rosebushes need a proper trim. Oh, and certainly my hairstylist. But my sons? There is nothing I need from them. If I want to see my grandchildren, I can talk directly to their wives. I would actually prefer that as Sailor and Persephone at least treat me like their equal and don’t believe I poisoned my own husband.”

“Speaking of your husband, what about him?” I inquired, smoothing a hand over my cap-sleeved, dark blue gown. “Will you be talking to him anytime in the next century, or are you going to spend the rest of your life dodging him?”

“Your father and I seem to have reached a boiling point after simmering over the edge of disaster for decades. He’s become paranoid and wrongfully mistrusting. Quite vulgar, seeing as I’m not the one who pops into the headlines every few months with a new affair. I hate to say this, Aisling my dear, but we might have reached the end of the road. I don’t see us coming back from this particular crisis.”

“Well, then I suggest you speak to him before you hand him divorce papers.” I gritted my teeth.

“He won’t believe me.”

“Try him.”

“Just tell your brothers to do as I say,” Mother huffed, like I was a teenager rather than a grown woman, waving me off.

I wasn’t an idiot. I knew people treated me like I was younger than my years because I let them. Because I was nice and timid and agreeable.

I shook my head, stomping over to Cillian and Hunter, who stood in a cluster with other men, smoking cigars and tutting loudly about the new tax plan.

You could tell they didn’t want to be here. Normally, they took their wives anywhere worth going. If they left Sailor and Persephone at home, it meant they planned an early exit and spared their wives of boredom.