Chapter 13 THE STRANGER WHO WORE HER FACE
(Five years later)
Jaxon's POV
I can't believe I'm here.
What on earth am I doing here?
I sighed deeply, forcing myself to press the doorbell.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Troy asked-for the second time since we arrived at my father's house.
A house where I'd only spent a few years of my life. I refuse to call it my home. Because it wasn't.
"No, Troy," I muttered, jaw clenched. "The witch wants to have dinner with me-something that's so unlike her. So I'm guessing she has something to say. I mean, it's been years since she's had such an opportunity. She should've never come back."
The anger began to simmer inside me, bubbling like acid in my chest.
Just like when I was little, whenever I heard she was around-or worse, saw her-every fiber of my being screamed to put a gun to her head.
The doctors once said my hatred for her stemmed from the head injury I sustained in the accident-that I couldn't recognize my own mother because of the trauma.
But I knew better.
The last time I saw, felt, and held my mother... was right before the accident that took her away from me.
The same accident that turned my life into a hell I never asked for.
I woke up in a hospital bed only to be greeted by a stranger wearing my mother's face, claiming to be her.
But she wasn't.
Everyone thought I was losing my mind. But I wasn't. They were the blind ones-unable to see the devil in disguise.
I was only twelve, expected to believe the lie that this woman was my mother, while I carried the truth alone like a curse.
She acted like a saint in front of others, but when we were alone, the mask came off.
She showed me exactly who she was.
She had me thrown into a psychiatric facility, claiming I was mentally unstable due to my injury.
But I remember everything.
Every pill.
Every forced silence.
Every lonely night.
"You look like you could kill and rip someone's face off right now," Troy said, snapping me out of the spiral.
I yanked at my tie-it suddenly felt like it was strangling me.
Pulling it off, I handed it to Troy, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt, trying to breathe again.
"See you in the next ten minutes," I told him as the front door opened.
Ellis-the butler-stood there, head slightly bowed.
He had been with this family for as long as I could remember. I hadn't seen him in years.
"Young master, you're here. Welcome. Your mother is waiting for you in the dining room," he said softly.
I walked up to him and paused, staring into his aging eyes.
There was warmth in them. Pity, maybe.
"You don't have to call me 'Young master' anymore, Ellis," I said quietly. "That title died the day I walked out of this house.
And calling her my mother? You and I both know that's a lie the world chose to believe. A lie they've dressed up and served like the truth."
I gave him a light pat on the shoulder before heading down the hallway to the dining room, where the witch sat, calmly eating like the years hadn't passed and she hadn't ruined my life.
I walked in and took the seat across from her without a word, making myself comfortable.
I looked over the food spread and eventually settled on the grilled fish with chips and sauce.
I didn't come here to starve.
"Aren't you going to greet your mother at least?"
Her voice sliced through the silence like a dull blade.
"I raised you better than this."
I ignored her. I didn't owe her a damn thing.
"Don't tell me you're still acting up like you did twenty years ago," she scoffed, setting her fork down. "For crying out loud, it's been two decades and you're still pretending I don't exist? Do you even know how I felt those twenty years you didn't ask about me?"
A wave of disgust washed over me, dragging my appetite down with it.
I dropped my fork and stared at her-really stared.
The audacity.
The sheer, unrepentant gall of this woman.
I let out a humorless laugh, cold and bitter, before finally raising my eyes to meet hers.
"Do I look like the twelve-year-old boy you locked away in a psychiatric home?" I asked, my tone sharp and unyielding.
"It's time you drop the act. Do you really think twenty years could make you my mother again?
You might wear her face, but you are not my mother.
And you never will be."
I made sure every word struck with the weight of finality-cold, brutal, and honest.
The once-faked motherly warmth in her eyes vanished, replaced by something darker-something sinister.
"A grown-ass man still whining over his mommy?" she sneered, a smug smirk creeping onto her face. "What a shame."
She leaned back casually, picking up a napkin and dabbing the corners of her mouth like we were having a civil conversation.
"You're right. It's been a long fucking twenty years trying to be your mother. And you never let me. But I tried. I tried my best," she said, locking her eyes with mine like she expected praise for her effort.
"And now," she continued, voice sweet with venom, "tell me-what have you and your father been up to?
You know I'm back.
And where's Isadora, your sister?
I mean, someone has to miss me after all these years. Right?"
I scoffed, folding my arms.
What a lovely mother you are.
You didn't call, write, or even send for your daughter for two decades.
But now you're here, expecting a warm welcome and maybe even a hug?
"If you must know, I'm a busy man. As you should recall, the family business demands all of our time," I said, letting sarcasm drip off every syllable.
"Which is probably the same reason you haven't bothered to visit Isadora in the last twenty years."
"And whose fault is that?" she retorted, her tone mirroring mine, sharp and caustic. "I'm not the one who couldn't deal with his mental health and then decided to pin it all on me."
That made me smile.
Not out of joy, but from the sheer madness of it all.
She smiled too-hers wicked and unbothered, as if we were sharing an inside joke.
But it wasn't funny.
I stood abruptly, grabbing the drink from the table and downing it in one angry gulp.
"So that's your excuse? That's all you've got?" I asked coldly.
"You know I left home. I left you.
So tell me-what's your excuse this time, mother?"
I spat the last word like poison.
Without waiting for her to answer, I turned and walked out.
Every time I see her, I feel sick to my stomach.
But I know she didn't just return to Westcliffe City to "reconnect."
No-she came back with an agenda.
And I'll be damned if I let her twist her way back into our lives.
Outside, I spotted Troy standing exactly where I'd left him, arms folded and face unreadable.
"That was quick," he said, falling into step beside me as we headed toward the car.
"Take me out of here, Troy," I muttered, tugging at my collar. "I feel sick."
He didn't say a word. He just opened the door, started the car, and drove me the hell away from the nightmare I thought I'd escaped.