They stared at each other—two people with too much history and not enough love between them.
“Alaric told me I was nothing. Just a street girl. That you’d dump me eventually. And now…” she trailed off. “I guess he was right.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Natasha still wins, doesn’t she? Even dead, she wins. You’d never throw her out. But me? I’m replaceable. Disposable. Once I’m gone, the women will line up again—just like I once did.”
“Martha,” Vander said sharply, “go to the seventh room. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
She started to laugh—quiet at first, then louder. Unhinged.
“I’ve always been an embarrassment, Vander. Since day one. You never loved me enough to protect me from that. You never shielded me. Not from your son. Not from your grief. Not even from myself.”
“Enough, Martha.
