Chapter 6

SIX

ELLA

Ella slept hard. So hard that the banging on her door jolted her awake so quickly that she almost hit her head on her Victorian oak headboard. Her mom burst into her room and Ella tugged the comforter to her chest.

“Jesus Christ. Privacy much?” She seriously needed a place of her own. Three months . In three months, she’d have enough money. She would trade in her 15 x 20 walk-in closet, two sitting chairs, wraparound desk, and wrought-iron coffee table for a studio any day of the week. All she needed was a bed, her paint and easel, and her favorite lipstick. She was so close, she could almost taste freedom.

“Sorry, honey.” Her mother’s hand flew to her chest, gripping the top of her rose-gold silk robe. “You’re normally up by now, and I was worried.”

Worried. If ever a word existed that her mother muttered the most, this would be it.

Her mom tucked a frosted blond lock behind her ear. “It’s not a good look for your father if you show up late to work.”

Disappointment. That would be next on the list.

Ella snatched her glasses off the counter and squinted at the clock. 5:37 a.m. Her mom had a point. But the reason she’d been up at four every morning was from nightmares about lost emails or missed meetings—not because she needed the time to get ready.

And besides, how did her mom know she was up at four every morning? Actually, it didn’t matter. Her mom had a freakish ability to know everything. Ella had even checked for nanny cams a few years back in her room, until she realized her mom wasn’t really that terrible.

Ella cleared her throat. “Out. Please.” She pointed to the door. Her mom pinched her lips, then pivoted on slippered feet and closed the door.

Ella flopped back onto the king-size bed and wrapped the cushy linen around her head. Wednesday. Hump day. Halfway-there day. By noon, the weekend would be closer than farther, and then she could take a couple days off from the Sophie firing squad, badgering her about timelines and experience and how many project schedules she’d built.

Part of her wished she could call Jasmine. Not actually Jasmine , but a someone. Their relationship may have ended in a disaster, but they had clicked and it had been so nice having someone to share things with. Ella had fallen, hard —until she had discovered who Jasmine really was.

Ella shook her head. Nope, today she would not go there. The lingering effects of getting hurt, losing trust, being betrayed , was a nasty, chronic disease. Sometimes, if she thought too hard about when she discovered Jasmine had cheated, and the way it tore her insides to shreds, she’d lose hope about finding a relationship.

Today, she couldn’t afford to be less than perfect. She shot out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom.

The shower eased some tension. After taking her medication and finishing hair and makeup, she fastened on her smartwatch, threw on jeans and a soft sweater—not cashmere, never making that mistake again—and thudded down the winding stairs. The savory scent of fried pork filled the air, and she followed the salt-cloud to the kitchen.

Her mother was sitting at the breakfast table in the corner overlooking Lake Washington. She was leaning forward with her new bifocals perched on top of her nose, staring at the laptop screen. Papaya and cantaloupe sat on the side. She bit into an avocado toast with crumbled prosciutto and glanced up. “Is it casual week? You’ve been dressing awfully… down.”

Ella shifted in her clothes and moved to the fridge. “I work at a marketing firm. Everyone dresses down.”

Her mom lifted a coffee mug to her lips. “Not your father.”

Solid point. Why was he always dressed up? He clearly didn’t make the staff dress like that, and he was the boss. Maybe she’d ask him later today, but she was still heated from how he’d cornered her on Monday morning. He’d droned on about the pressures of work and how she might feel more comfortable in a part-time capacity. Thank God Sophie appeared to not hear any of their conversation, or Ella would have officially lost it on him.

“Are you hungry?” her mom asked. “I sent Lydia away, but could call her back and have her prepare something. Maybe poached eggs? Brioche toast with jam?”

Ella grabbed a green juice and shook her head. She was perfectly capable of making her own food and did not need a staff member to cook it. Besides, when she lived on her own, she’d need to do these things herself. She rummaged through the massive pantry and pulled out a croissant and butter. “What are you working on?”

Her mom stuck a fork into a piece of cantaloupe. “Reading through a few emails for the Seattle Cocktail Wars.”

The narrative in Ella’s head that her mother never worked wasn’t fair. Granted, she didn’t need to work, and she’d never had a formal 9-to-5, but she threw herself into a couple of key philanthropist events throughout the year. Seattle Cocktail Wars—where the top greater-Seattle service industry professionals competed against each other in field-day-style competitions—was her favorite.

Ella spread the butter on the croissant and tore off a chunk. “Did Dad leave for work?”

“Yes, but Thomas will be back any second to take you.”

“I’m going to Uber today.” Ella popped a bite in her mouth and gathered lunch items.

Her mom’s head tilted. “Why would you take an Uber?”

“Trying something different. Consider this my act of rebellion for the week.”

Her mom lifted a brow. “I thought your act of rebellion was wearing those pants with those shoes.”

Of course, her mom wouldn’t understand giving up the luxury and convenience of having a driver, for the chance that Sophie, or any other co-worker, would see her dropped off by a town car. And maybe a week ago, she wouldn’t have fully understood herself, either. In the U District, with so much car and foot traffic, people shuffling from class to class, or barreling down The Ave to get pad thai, no one paid attention. A certain anonymity existed in campus life.

But now, being around working people, feeling the same crunch herself of earning dollars for independence, she was hyper-aware of the perception.

It’s not like she hadn’t asked her parents for the money to move out. Her mom had lamented about how when they had over ten thousand square feet of living space, there was no reason for her to get her own place. Here, she had a staff to attend to needs, her art studio, Thomas… She didn’t even have to do her own laundry. Her mom tackled this ask with a kind voice, talked about how difficult it would be for Ella to wash dishes and learn how to clean clothes and mop floors. And she should realize how blessed she was, and why would she want anything else? “It’s like slapping the less fortunate in the face,” her mom had said.

That statement had made zero sense to Ella.

When Ella had shifted into begging, her mom snapped and said if she moved out, she’d refuse to support her at all. Credit cards gone. Cash allowance gone. Sure, she had a modest trust fund, but that was wrapped up in more lawyers than a celebrity sex-scandal case, and she couldn’t access it until she was thirty-five. Which at this point may as well be a hundred.

Her mom added a dash of creamer to her coffee and stirred. “Did you reschedule the doctor appointment you missed last week?”

Ella opened the Uber app. “Ah, no. Not yet.”

“What? Why not?”

She avoided what was surely her mother’s heated gaze and hand pressed against her heart like she was warding off a heart attack. Why hadn’t Ella gone? Because the very last thing she needed was to leave work early and have Sophie shoot dagger eyes all day for Ella getting more special treatment.

“Ella. Jean. Northwood.”

Great. The full name. Ella was twenty-four and still cringed at the tone.

“When are you going to reschedule? I can do it for you.”

She glanced up at her mom’s fierce gaze and swallowed. “I’ve got it.”

Her mother pressed her slim hands on the table and sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Epilepsy is nothing to take lightly. You always want control and to not listen to a word we say, but this is serious. I don’t think you understand the implications?—”

“You don’t think you’ve pounded this into my head since I was nine? I don’t take it lightly. My whole fucking world revolves around making sure I am doing everything right, avoiding things, not avoiding things, med schedule, nasal spray, my alarm, everything.” She exhaled fire. “I just need to reschedule. Christ.”

Her mom barely flinched at the tone, or the cursing, and Ella’s stomach turned. She hated that any time she was frustrated, her mom took the brunt of her outbursts. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t right or fair.

“We’re just worried.” Her mother crossed her arms. “With this new medication, we just don’t know when something may trigger a seizure.”

“Enough! Okay? Jesus Christ, I get it.”

Her mom’s gritted teeth made it look like she was on the verge of smacking something or tears, and at this point, Ella couldn’t handle either one.

Ella softened her stance, stuffed the rest of the lunch in a bag, tossed in an ice pack, and zipped. “I appreciate you looking out for me. I really do. Just?—”

“Just what?” her mom demanded.

Just… I can’t breathe. Ella couldn’t stomach looking at her parent’s face like she was a fragile doll that would splinter if the wind hit hard enough. Sometimes it felt like salt and ash soaked the air, and no matter how much she pulled in, she couldn’t fill her lungs.

And how could she explain that it felt as if she lived in a prison? Sure, the prison was luxurious and huge and filled with everything she needed—except freedom. She ached to swap her luxury Egyptian cotton sheets and bathroom suite and Victorian dressers for something that was only hers. “Nothing, Mom. I’m really sorry I worried you. I got this, I promise.”

The fruit plate was pushed aside, and her mother rested her head into her hands. “I can’t have anything happen to you. I just… I’d never forgive myself.” The tiniest crack left her mom’s normally stoic voice.

And there it was—that pained look, followed by a crushing guilt that consumed Ella and made her want to bolt.

Ella could never fathom what her parents felt when they went from chatting over banana pancakes to having your child seize on the kitchen floor. Apparently, there was no warning. No genetics, no head trauma, no prenatal trauma, nothing. For years, they visited every doctor, every specialist, flew all over the country, to find out when, how, and why these occurred. The doctors put Ella on different medications, ones that hurt her stomach, or made her sleep for half a day, or made her head scream in pain. She had terrifying electrodes attached to her hair, and she cried at night trying to remove the glue. Her mother, panicked that Ella would seize in her sleep, kicked her dad into one of the guest rooms, and had Ella sleep next to her for years.

Short, quick visions emerged of her un-showered mom lying in her bed, exhausted and crying. She remembered one night hearing horrifying sounds coming from her dad’s office, and was sure that an injured animal had snuck through the window. But instead of seeing a cow or horse, she saw his shoulders crumpled and shaking, his hearty laughter swapped for a hollowed sob.

But then her mother channeled all her fear into suffocating Ella. She seemed to believe if she controlled everything, she could protect Ella. No matter how strong, how emotionless her mom appeared, Ella saw it in her face. She was fifty-five, but looked older. All the forehead Botox and fancy skin cream in the world couldn’t hide the worry bags around her eyes.

Ella’s phone beeped that the Uber had arrived. Thank God. “Gotta go. I promise, I’ll call the doctor later today.” As she went to toss the phone in her purse, an email notification popped up from Sophie. Her gaze flew across the screen.

Her mother called out something, but Ella ignored her. Right now, Ella had more pressing items to attend to.