Page 9 of Damaged Protector
With pursed lips, she picked up my bag and shoved it back into my hands. “Completely horrible. And you’re going to fix it. Now.”
“H-how can I fix it? Do you think we should go to the campus police?”
Mama’s chin jutted to the side. “Certainly not. I’m hoping we can keep this contained if you apologize to Professor Moreau.”
I was stunned into silence for a moment. What the hell was she talking about? “He should be apologizing to me, Mama!”
She popped her light-brown eyebrows up. “Oh really? You call one of the most renowned dancers in the world an arrogant son of a bitch, and you think he should apologize to you? I can’t believe you’ve done this. It could be a complete scandal and ruin your career.” Bustling toward the door, she took my elbow and tried to steer me along, but I pulled away.
She just didn’t understand. Ivan Kotov had apparently only told her the men’s version, and not the truth. “He tried to make me do… sexual favors for him.”
I expected outrage from my mother. Sympathy. Something other than what I got. Ire.
“Oh, stop being dramatic, Mallori Anne Fitz. There’s no way someone like Bernard Moreau would want to sleep with a girl your age. You’re only twenty-three.”
“Well he made me kneel and then started undoing his pants,” I retorted, blinking hard at her.
“You may have permanently marred your entire career, and you want to try and hang onto this false story? Ivan told me everything. Just admit you couldn’t keep up with Professor Moreau’s choreography and got frustrated. That’s still no excuse for insulting one of the greatest dance minds in the world. He’ll probably never want to work with you again.”
“I wouldn’t work with him if he were the last instructor on Earth.”
“Yes, you will. You’re going to go back to that school, get down on your knees, and beg for his forgiveness.”
“No, thank you,” I shouted. “I’ve already been on my knees once tonight when that pervert tried to make me suck his dick.”
Mama’s hand cracked across my face, and I stumbled back a few steps. She looked as surprised as I was, staring down at her palm like it had hit me without her permission.
“You know I don’t like that kind of language,” she said, her chin lifting in a haughty tilt. She’s not even going to apologize for hitting me?
“Well, I don’t like being sexually assaulted,” I cried, allowing my tears to fall. They stung the handprint I could feel blooming on my cheek. “Or slapped.”
My mother blew out a stream of breath toward the ceiling. “I apologize for striking you, Mallori, but you are acting completely out of character tonight. I don’t know what’s gotten into you.” She pulled open the front door and turned on her conciliatory mom voice. “Get in the car. I’ll help you craft the perfect apology on the way.”
“I’m not apologizing to that man. Why won’t anyone believe me?” I shouted.
She took an ominous step toward me. “You will apologize. Your career depends on it. You don’t want to get the kind of reputation where people think you’re difficult to work with.”
It was obvious she didn’t believe anything had happened to me. Or maybe she just didn’t give a fuck. In that moment, I saw my mother in a new light. She’d always pushed me hard toward a dance career, but I was just realizing that she didn’t actually care about me. She was living out her own broken dreams through my dancing.
“You can’t force the words from my mouth. I won’t apologize for being attacked.” I wasn’t sure where this moxie was coming from; it had been nonexistent for my entire life. “I’ll tell Daddy what happened. He’ll believe me.”
And then he’ll murder Bernard Moreau.
Mama’s hand twitched, and I braced myself to be slapped again, but she dug her fingers into her thick thigh. “Wonderful. You do that. Then I’d like to see how smug you feel while you’re sitting at your father’s funeral.”
Her words had the desired effect, and I shrank a couple inches. “I-I don’t…”
“You will not speak a word of this to your father.” She yelled the third word. “We won’t tell him you got kicked out of the university. It would break his heart.”
“But, Mama…”
She held up one manicured finger. “Hush and let me think.” Scraping her bottom lip with her nail, she murmured, “I’ll… I’ll tell him you’re taking a break because of your shoulder. I won’t have my husband dead from his heart condition because his daughter is a spoiled brat.”
“I’m not a brat,” I insisted. Spoiled? Maybe.
“You have every single thing you could ever want or need, Mallori. You’ve had the best dance classes, and you wear the finest in dance attire and shoes. Traveled the world to dance with first-class instructors. Plus, your father built you your very own dance studio on the third floor.”
Dance, dance, dance. Everything was about dance.