𝐢.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧
──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────

⋆       𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦      ⋆

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Cady snaps, sitting across from me at my parent's sleek mahogany dinner table.

I've only been here a whopping forty-three minutes and I already want this family 'dinner' to be over with.

My mother, who's situated to my left at the head of the table, adorns her favorite silk navy pleated blouse, black slacks, and a deepening frown on her lips as she glares sharply at my sister.

"Language." She scolds. Cady rolls her eyes.

Neither Cady nor myself are particularly a fan of our mother.

Both of us have valid reasons behind our disdain for her. The same goes for our father. If we're even able to call him that, considering how absent he's been throughout our lives.

We only attend these dinners to satiate our parent's need to socialize with their success stories and get information out of us to brag to their wealthy friends about. How they helped build us. Mould us into what we are.

Which isn't entirely false.

But along the way, they forgot that they were parents and used the both of us as cash cows to fuel their lavish trips across Europe, expensive clothes, jewelry, cars, and other accessories that only absurd amounts of money could buy.

Shit—the house we're in now was bought with our money.

To them, we were personified dollar signs. They exploited my sister and I for their own personal gain. Growing up dirt-poor didn't help matters, but they could've figured out another way to get by.

Instead, they threw us into children's shows. Commercials and product advertisements in magazines to the highest bidder.

When we hit our mid-teens, Cady was shoved into teen shows—which did surprisingly well considering her hatred for acting. She was even forced to release an album. She was told to 'ride the tidal wave of fame', didn't have any say in the matter. It didn't do too bad though, all things considered. But she hated every second of that time in her life and refuses to acknowledge its existence to this day.

"You aren't with him still, are you?" Speaks my sister, ignoring our mother entirely as her eyes meet mine.

I glance to my right at my father, who's as unbothered as ever. He doesn't speak much these days. Our mother used to walk all over him in the past to the point where he now knows to keep his mouth shut if he wants to stay out of her firing range. Coward.

I lift my gaze back to the blonde. "No. We broke up almost a week ago." My throat tightens at the thought.

The thought of Ryan with someone else.

Openly out and about with her, too. While my wounds are still fresh.

They'd started to clot throughout the week... until Cady brought him up again, along with information that'd just been leaked an hour ago.

Information I wasn't even unaware of. With it being so new and I'd told my manager not to worry about me tonight—I wasn't briefed on anything, so I couldn't prepare myself.

No warning.

He's been spotted with Melody Wright. A catch, considering her superiority.

She's a goddess in her own right, in a league of her own.

Though I'm pretty well-known, in the ranks with the hottest models of our generation, I'm not exactly a household name like she is. In her line of work, her fame is a given. Starring in dozens of award-winning movies tends to do that.

But a week after we broke things off.

A fucking week.

He just couldn't wait to get his dick wet again. And with Melody Wright of all people?

He may have actually physically slapped me across the face.

How they met is beyond me.

Probably at some party we went to, or club. Where I socialized with other models to further my status for my job while he partied hard until dawn. I had to take care of him most nights.

Don't get me wrong, the good outweighed the bad.
Just like any other relationship. We had our issues, ups and downs.

But I think I'll miss the sex more than anything. It wasn't earth-shattering by any means. But he knows every one of my turn-ons, and I know his. How we joined perfectly together, fit each other so well... how well we know the others bodies. Needs and wants, desires...

My fists clench in my lap, wishing I could punch that aggravatingly handsome face of his.

"Good riddance. He's too immature for you. Besides, that skateboarding career of his will only get him so far in life." Mother says, shaking her head. For once, I actually agree. I don't let my contentment with her words show as I shift my gaze to my plate.

This is the last place I want to be right now.

Talking about him like this when all I want to do is get shit-faced and spend the night black-out drunk on my living room floor.

I need something stronger than the stupid champagne bubbling in my mother's expensive crystal glass.

I take a sip, fighting the urge to down it in one go.

It would deter my mother from her Ryan warpath and only gain me a second metaphorical slap to the face tonight.

"And you're still here because...?"

Knowing my sister, I don't have to ask what her question means.

"Go show him what he's missing, Ela." That fiery look behind eyes so similar to mine seems to say. Ever the instigator—but I love her for it.

I tap a manicured nail on the stem of the glass and purse my lips.

Her question is also a probe at my parents. Testing to see how much she can get away with. I want to leave this house as much as she does.

For the third time since we'd sat down, father speaks. Tone stern and detached. "We only see you girls once a month, and would appreciate your presence until we've at least finished eating." Ice-cold eyes pierce Cady, then myself. His words satiate our mother, who straightens in her chair.

"You'll be better off without him. This will give you time to focus on your career with no distractions." My lovely mother stabs a piece of steak on her plate. It might as well have been my heart.

Both of our parents label anyone we bring home as a "distraction" if they don't meet their standards. Satisfying said standards is practically fucking impossible.

They're either too tall, too short, too ugly, or not wealthy enough in their eyes. When I say 'their' I mean mother—since father simply agrees with everything she says to stay on her good side.

"His loss." Cady butts in. She perks a brow, clearly trying to lighten my rapidly dampening mood.

"Indeed,"

I clear my throat, deciding to change the subject that successfully abolished my appetite.

"So, how's Maximus doing?" A nickname I'd dubbed her boyfriend Max after a drunken night at my place.

She tries to hide her smile at the mention of her boyfriend but fails. "Fine."

"I read that his father is ill. Is that true?" Mother says, interrupting our conversation.

Cady visibly pales. "It is."

Words calculative and slow, she continues. "And that while he's unable to run his company, Max will temporarily take his place?"

Her nose twitches.

I take in a sharp breath, knowing the damn will break entirely if mother keeps pressuring her about him. Cady can be very protective over Max for reasons I'm unaware of, and honestly, it's none of my business. He makes her happy, which is all that really matters to me.

"Yes," She says with false prettiness, offering a plastic smile.

"Well, he has older siblings, correct? Wouldn't they have a claim to Baxtin before him? Oh, don't give me that look, Cady. I'm simply curious."

Curious if he'll be worth millions.

She pauses before speaking as if recollecting herself for the politest rebuttal in Cady's twenty-five years of life. She has our mother's fiery personality. Though, unlike our mother, she can manage it.

"Just because he's the youngest doesn't mean he's not as capable as his brothers—if they want to take over." Mother keeps her gaze entirely trained on hers.

Neither budges, not daring to give the other a foothold in the silent battle now waging between them. A war that's been brewing for months. An inevitable skirmish that's bound to break any day, any second, depending on how hard one pushes the other.

"What does the eldest brother do again? I can't seem to recall..." Oh, she can.

She's going down a very dangerous, steep path. One that she may not come back from unscathed.

"Watch it." Cady snarls.

Knowing that she hit a soft spot, Mother sneers faintly, just enough to piss Cady off even more. Since she doesn't bother to earn our trust or our affection, she likes to gain our attention in other ways. No matter how infuriating it can be. She deemed actually bonding with her daughters too tiresome a long time ago. Nothing new to us.

Arguing is our normal.

All we've ever known and presumably all we'll continue to know, since our mother is a robot incapable of genuine human emotion.

As for Max, his brother's past is public knowledge. Which goes to show how conniving our mother is.
The Baxin's have been a victim to the tabloids just as we have, although their dirty laundry far succeeds our own. His family has far more wealth than we'll ever see—owning a large pharmaceutical company and a few smaller businesses here in L.A.

Father scrapes his knife against the plate as he cuts his meat, acting as if we're merely ghosts in another realm of reality.

Invisible.

"He seems to be fairing extremely well, considering his overdose a few months ago. Didn't he go to rehab for that? Or is he still snorting, God knows what, in alleyways and... what was it again? A hotel lobby of all places?" With such cold, unrelenting bitterness, mothers tone is toxic waste in its purest form. Her words feel like venom as she speaks.

Cady flicks her searing gaze at me. Silently asking for me to intervene before shit hits the fan.

I'm the one who brought up Max. Thinking back on it, I probably shouldn't have said anything. I'd forgotten the company we're keeping. But with my head completely scrambled by Ryan, who could be fucking one of the most famous, hottest actresses out there—I'm a complete mess inside. I'm off my game.

Take the blame, Elara. You started it.

Swallowing down the rising bile in my throat while pushing Ryan to the back of my mind, I jab myself into this conversation like a splinter, ready to release my inner prick.

"Can we please go one meal without arguing over relationships or our careers? It's always the same. Fucking. Bullshit.—"

"—Language."

I close my eyes and run my tongue over my teeth.

"—Every time we come to these stupid dinners. And you wonder why we don't want to be around either of you when you act like this? So—so fucking heartless?" Father only tilts his head while he examines his fork, finding an imaginary scratch on his cutlery more concerning than his family actively falling apart around him.

I keep my eyes on him, waiting for him to look up. To dare to meet the anger in my stare. The hurt, the shame to have to call him my flesh. My blood.

But of course he doesn't. Why would he?

"Your father and I are not heartless. We gave you life. We gave you opportunity, practically put success in both of your laps, and fed it to you on a silver spoon. And how do you repay us for that? By acting like ungrateful, entitled little brats," Cady's chair whines against the hardwood floor as she springs to her feet, "Who never bothered to utter a single thank you for giving you the wealth and success you have now."

Before I can respond, Cady beats me to it. "I can't speak for Ela, but I sure as hell didn't ask to be born. I didn't ask for this life. To be literally thrown into an industry full of greedy old, disgusting-ass perverts. An industry I grew to despise by the way. And if you cared to know me at all, or to even look at me, really look and not just glare, you would know that I've hated it since I was seven. So of course I'm not going to fucking thank you because, I don't owe you shit. If anything, you owe me for years of childhood trauma that I will carry with me for the rest of the life you, 'gave' me."

Mother chokes out a laugh. A foul, wicked sound.

"I owe you? I owe you for all your connections you have to flourish your pitiful excuse of a career? I owe you for throwing your life I built for you away to become a—a shadow-writer?"

Cady slowly stalks toward our mother with calculated steps. Almost feline, like a mountain lion stalking its prey. She takes two more steps, seething with years worth of pent-up rage, she pounces.

"Unlike you, I'm actually chasing my dreams instead of dwindling on dead embers of your own broken ambitions you tried to push onto your kids. You live vicariously through us because you lack talent. You're pathetic." She points a finger at her wrinkle-free face, courtesy of all the botox and face lifts she'd just finished recovering from.

Her expression... is one I've never seen before. Eyes broad, thin brows raised, mouth agape.

Is she—afraid?

"I gave you girls everything I never had—" She stammers. She's much less assertive and less confident than she was before.

"Oh please, just stop." Cady's loud emphasis on stop commands time itself. The room goes deathly quiet. If a pin were to drop, it'd sound like a clap of thunder. With lethal, collected precision, she continues.

"Throwing yourself a pity party won't do you any favors. This has been a long time coming, and you know it."

Mother looks at me. As if I'm some sort of saving grace. Hail Mary. The actual nerve.

"You've always talked down on us. And the one time the both of us gang up on you, you can't handle it. I could keep going, you know. We could talk about how much of a shit mother you've been for the entirety of the night, up until tomorrow afternoon if I wanted to. But I'm done dealing with your shit. Being in the same room as you is draining, and I've already been here far too long." It's as if Cady had sucked the venom right from its main source and spat it right back in the assailants face.

Even though we've all argued hundreds of times, this one feels different. There's a finality to it that clings heavily to the air.

Her lip curls, upset that she can no longer manipulate the conversation. We have the high ground.

Cady doesn't waste another second. She grabs her black Prada bag, slings it over her shoulder, and sends me a silent queue to follow.

I turn my head to our mother. Head high, chin up, showing no weakness. "We're done dealing with you shit." At my correction, Cady smirks.

"Daniel!" She hisses, resorting to her husband for backup.

He'll give it to her. No doubt about it.

Metal clanging against ceramic clashes through the three of us.

"For fucks sake, Theresa," He mutters under his breath, barely audible, "If they want to leave, let them leave. They're adults, and are more than capable of making decisions by themselves. Stop. Meddling."

All of us direct our fullest attention to him, shock written across our faces.

But mother looks much more distressed than we do. Even though he has no idea if I want to leave or not, he insinuated. Goes to show how much he cares.

Using this aversion to our advantage, my sister and I make our exit.

Leaving both parents glaring at one another. Seething, ready to take their anger out on the other.

Not bothering to look our way. To call out to us, admit their wrongs, tell us they love us or that they're sorry for arguing.

They let us walk away—officially tearing whatever semblance of a pitiful excuse of a family we had left.