My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 91

Gianna

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"Where were you last night?"

My mom stood in the doorway. I didn't turn around immediately. I just kept my back to her, slowly setting my hairdryer down on the dresser.

"What?" I asked, trying to keep my voice flat.

She stepped into the room, crossing her arms tight over her chest. As she moved, I noticed a slight, heavy hitch in her left leg, a tiny stumble she tried to hide by leaning against the doorframe. Her fingers twitched against her elbows.

"Where. Were. You," she repeated.

She was using her "Mom voice," the one that usually meant I was in deep trouble.

"I—I was here," I lied.

"Don't you dare lie to me!" she snapped, "You weren't here. I checked this room every hour. I called you a hundred times, Gianna. I was ten seconds away from telling Salvatore. I almost begged him to send his sons out to find you, but I stopped myself because I knew you’d hate it. So, give me the respect of a real answer!"

I looked down at my lap, "I went to a party... with a friend. I just stayed the night because I was tired."

"Which friend?"

"Mom, please—"

"Give me a name, Gianna!" she nearly yelled. Her body gave a sudden, violent shudder, and she had to grip the back of my desk chair to keep her balance. She looked pale, her skin tight over her cheekbones.

Was it her spine again?

"Just some people from college," I added quickly, my heart racing, "You don't know them."

She went to take another step, but her gaze dropped. She froze, her eyes locking onto my bare feet. I tried to curl my toes under, to hide the bandages but it was too late.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

I opened and closed my mouth like a fish out of water, "Ballet practice. I just... I pushed it too hard."

Her left eyebrow shot up, and she let out a dry, breathless laugh, "Ballet practice?"

I nodded fast, "Yeah. I was just practicing."

"Really?" she said, "Because I called your instructor last night. She said she hasn't seen you in weeks. Weeks, Gianna. And yet you leave this house three, four, five times a week telling me you’re going to the studio. If you haven't been at ballet, where have you been?"

I felt the blood drain from my face, "I just... I've been doing it alone."

Suddenly, the anger in her face vanished. It was replaced by a look of such deep, agonizing fear that it hurt to look at her. She didn't stay standing. Her knees seemed to buckle, and she dropped to the floor in front of me. She reached out to grab my ankles, but her fingers were fumbling, her coordination slipping as she tried to touch the bandages.