They Won’t Let Me Go

On my birthday, the stepson I’d raised from a baby emptied a glass of red wine over my head. He screamed at me to get the hell out of his house.

For years, I had been a substitute for a dead woman. Now, I was a monster to the boy I had raised as my own.

I had endured enough.

"You bitch! Don't you dare think you can replace my mom just by wearing her jewelry!"

My eight-year-old stepson, Leo, stood before me. His little face was twisted with rage.

Before I could move, cold, sticky wine soaked through my dress.

The next second, his hand shot out, closing around the pearls at my throat. He yanked.

The string snapped. Pearls skittered across the marble floor, a hundred tiny, white tears.

Damien had given them to me just this morning. He’d looked me straight in the eye and said they were made for me.

I thought he was finally seeing me.

I never dreamed the pearls belonged to his dead wife, Krista.

The ballroom fell silent.

Every guest stared. Some whispered. Others pulled out their phones to take pictures.

"Leo." My voice was dangerously calm. "Your father gave me this jewelry."

"I don't care!" he screamed. "You're just copying her! You'll never be my mother!"

I looked at the child I had raised. A sharp pain shot through my heart.

Eight years ago, Damien’s wife, Krista, was killed in a rival family hit.

She took a bullet meant for their son.

That same year, my father’s business was failing.

He saw an opportunity.

My father’s plan: seduce the grieving Don.

Everyone knew how much he’d loved his wife. I wanted no part of that mess.

But my father pushed.

He arranged for me to be at a gala.

I never expected what happened next. The moment Damien saw me, his grief turned to obsession. He had to have me.

Because I was a dead ringer for his dead Krista.

For eight years, I played the part of a dutiful wife and stepmother. I took care of this father and son.

Sometimes, I’d lose myself and think we were a real, happy family.

Until last year. Leo found out I wasn't his birth mother.

He started throwing fits, demanding his real mom back. He even accused me of killing her.

I tried to soothe him, just like I always had.

He only gave me insults and rebellion in return.

Before, I always put up with it. I played the role of the patient, gentle stepmother.

But not today. Today, I was done.

I stood, my eyes fixed forward. My birthday was over.

"Then go find your real mother."

Leo froze.

He clearly didn't expect that response.

I turned and walked out of the ballroom, heading for the garden to clear my head.

But when I got back to my third-floor studio, I walked into hell.

My grandfather’s painting, Heart of the Desert. It was slashed to ribbons. Black paint was smeared all over the canvas.

Next to it, in childish handwriting: "You took my mom from me, so I'm taking the thing you care about most!"

It had taken me three years to restore it.

Now, it was destroyed. The frame, smashed to pieces. A deep gash ripped through the canvas. Priceless pigments smeared across it like dried blood.

Leo stood beside the wreckage, the paint-stained dagger still in his hand.

"This is what you get for crossing me!" he announced, gloating. "Next time you mess with me, I'll destroy all your junk!"

My heart stopped.

That painting was my last connection to anything real in this world.

It was a testament to my grandfather, who taught me how to paint my soul with color. It was my only comfort in this cold mansion.

I knelt, my trembling hands picking up a torn piece of the canvas.

Now it was shattered, just like my heart.

"Elara."

Damien's voice came from the doorway. I didn’t turn, but I could feel his eyes scanning the room.

"What happened?" he asked.

"It's obvious," my voice sounded distant. "Your son destroyed my things."

"Leo, why would you do this?"

"She started it!" Leo shot back. "She wore Mom's dress and told me to go find my real mom!"

I finally stood and faced Damien.

He looked pissed, but not because of what Leo did.

"Over a painting?" he said, his voice dangerously low. "You're making a scene over a piece of canvas?"

Two bodyguards walked in. Damien snapped his fingers. "Get this trash out of my sight."

Trash.

He called my grandfather’s soul trash.

I watched as the guards swept the torn canvas and broken frame into a garbage bag.

"Don't look at me like that," Damien said, walking toward me. "I'll make it up to you. Today is a special day. I have another gift for you."

He pulled a document from his jacket pocket.

"Ownership of a legitimate company. It's worth five million dollars. As of today, it's yours."

He was buying me off. Paying me like a whore to shut up and forget.

Five million dollars.

He thought money could fix anything.

He thought I was like all the other women, that a big enough check would make me grateful.

He never knew what that painting meant to me.

Or maybe he knew. And he just didn't care.

Damien reached out to touch my cheek, just like he had a thousand times over the past eight years.

I took a step back.

For the first time in eight years, I recoiled from his touch.

Damien’s hand froze mid-air. A flash of confusion crossed his eyes.

"Damien." My trembling voice steadied.

"Our deal is done. Tomorrow, I'm leaving."