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“Fine,” I blurted. “Yes. Damon and I are together. I didn't tell you because I haven't told anyone.”

Technically true.

Mostly.

Depending on how loosely one defined “together.”

“What’s wrong with him?” she demanded.

I blinked. “What?”

“There must be something wrong with him if you felt the need to hide him.”

“Nothing is wrong with him.”

“Secrets are a cancer, Mikayla. They'll eat you alive.”

And there it was.

The hypocrisy.

Delivered with the confidence of a woman who had absolutely no idea she was standing on a mountain of it.

My mother had lied to me my entire life about who my father was. Not omitted a few details. Not waited until I was old enough to understand.

Lied.

For decades.

And now she wanted to lecture me about the dangers of keeping secrets?

For someone who claimed to be in tune with the universe, Claudia Parsons had a remarkable ability to miss what was happening directly in front of her.

Something tightened around my chest.

I inhaled.

Not enough air.

I tried again.

My heartbeat kicked up, fast and uneven. And not because of a bad-boy smile.

Oh, no.

Not now.

I recognized the signs. The tingling in my fingers. The sudden dizziness. The horrible sensation that the walls were moving closer.

I'd had about a dozen panic attacks over the past two years.

Coincidentally—or not—they'd started shortly after I'd been named CEO of St. Claire Global.

Apparently, running an international corporation came with a complimentary subscription to crippling anxiety.

“Mom…” I struggled to pull air into my lungs. “Can…you…please…stop?”

“Mikayla?”