I had heard enough. I turned to leave, but Holley’s voice stopped me again.
“How is Margarette these days?” she asked with a twisted smile. “I bet she’s suffering.”
I froze, my back to her. Margarette, my adoptive mother, was also Holley’s biological mother.
“She’s dead,” I said quietly, my voice strained.
“She passed away three years ago.”
I didn’t look back as I left. The last thing I wanted was to talk about Margarette.
Despite her gentle name, Margarette had been anything but kind. She controlled every part of my life—forcing me to practice piano, attend dance lessons, and keep up with school. If I slipped up, I was locked away in a dark room.
When I found out she wasn’t my real mother, my resentment only grew.
I hated her for stealing my childhood, for shaping my life into something I didn’t want. She never showed me the love I craved, never gave me the praise I needed.
Meanwhile, Holley, her real daughter, had lived freely, enjoying the life I had been denied.
Furious, I stormed back into the hotel. I ignored Holley’s smug look and Ezail’s hesitant expression.
“Marla…” I heard him call, but I pretended not to hear.