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“So if it suited her, you’d let your own daughter marry a monster?” My mother’s voice pitches.

Wynnter flinches.

“And who—” my mother hisses, “—are you calling December? Her name is Devina.” Her palm meets her chest, violently. “I chose that name for her when I first held her in my arms. I spent months making a list. A list. And I picked which name on it suited her best the moment I first met her eyes.” Voice cracking, my mother says, “Don’t you dare take my daughter from me.”

Mrs. Winslow settles in beside her husband. “No one is trying to take Devina from you. Can you join us tonight?”

My stomach knots at the very idea of inviting my mother into the picture tonight. I don’t want her near it. I don’t want to endure a night of lectures and pointed comments that make me feel small and stupid and wrong.

I don’t want her around me.

I’m not sure I’ll ever want her around me again.

“Perhaps with some time to get to know each other,” Mrs. Winslow continues, “we can reconcile the hard parts that have led us to this point.”

“My daughter deserves better than your son,” my mother spits.

Steady, Mrs. Winslow says, “I disagree. And I believe you’re aware that you’re not only outnumbered but also outgunned.” Frighteningly chill, Mrs. Winslow references Alister as her tone shifts from welcoming to calculating. It’s so painfully August that my heart shudders. “From mother to mother, I can promise you that if Wynnter ever dared to lay a hand on Devina, his father and I would skin him alive. Your daughter is old enough to make decisions for herself. She’s old enough to judge a character on her own. She’s old enough to know what she wants in her life and in her partner. As far as this family is concerned, if you aren’t willing to support her through her choices, you have no right to deem them mistakes. Now.” Mrs. Winslow lifts her hand, her chilling invite still in place. “Like Devina, you are welcome to expand—not replace— your family, but just know that, in this part of the family, you are not welcome to spend our time together insulting my child or undermining the autonomy of yours.”

My hair rises, and a shiver slices down my spine.

“Marissa.” My father’s tone brooks no leeway, and my mother turns at the sound of her name. Slight, he nods toward their client, and I hear my mother swear under her breath for the first time in my life.

In a final act of desperation, she looks at me. Voice more broken than I have ever heard it, she says, “Devina, please.”

It feels so stupid, so insipid, so childish, but I find the strength to say, “I love him.”

“Love is not enough,” she repeats. And I know. I know she’s right.

So I gather my courage and whisper, “Please.” I swallow acid. “If you won’t listen to me, let me show you what is enough.”

“Marissa,” my father urges.

My mother’s head shakes. “I can’t do this right now.” She fixes her gaze on Mrs. Winslow, and tears—so foreign on my mother’s face—appear to glaze her eyes. “From one mother to another,” she hisses, “I hold you to your word. Keep my baby safe.” Then she walks away, rejoining my father and their client.

Chapter 15

◼

Some things are meant to be broken.

Wynnter

I wish I didn’t have a temper. I wish I weren’t so rough around the edges. I wish that December’s parents didn’t have a single thing to say about me outside their misinformation concerning how much money I have or what my status is.

I wish December was okay right now.

Instead of rattled. And jumpy. And paranoid.

Settling at one of the snow-frosted tables outside the palace in the central pavilion, I deliver a steaming hot chocolate and caramel apple funnel cake to my poor girl.

She offers me a fragile smile that doesn’t elicit a single dimple, and my heart cracks.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Her lips part as her smile falls. “For…what?”

Sagging, I reach over my own styrofoam cup of hot chocolate to rip a piece of funnel cake. “I shouldn’t have—” I cuss. “—lost my—” I cuss, again. “—temper like I did.”