Chapter 257

To my chagrin, the first photograph in the book is one of Kent with his arm wrapped around Natalia’s shoulders, grinning at the camera while Natalia crosses her arms and gives the camera saucy look.

But as I look closer at it, I can’t help but smile and laugh a little. Because Kent looks so much like Daniel – so much so that if you hadn’t told me any better, I’d have said that that was Daniel in the photograph wearing a flannel shirt with very 90’s floppy hair.

My eyes run over Kent’s face, his figure, and I have to bite my lip a little at the sight of him. He just looks so...young, so happy. I mean honestly, it’s not like I really think of Kent as old now – he’s still crazy hot and in incredible shape. But in this picture he’s what...sixteen? Christ, he’s younger than I am now.

I begin to flip through the album, smiling more at the vintage fashions, the shots of Kent and Natalia in the Italian countryside, then lounging around in someone’s bedroom, even eating gelato in a city somewhere – maybe Rome? I linger particularly on the few close-up shots of Kent’s face, clearly taken by an admirer, when I realize that this album actually doesn’t have any pictures of Lenai in it. And that’s when I realize that it’s her album because...she took the pictures.

And I go still, a little bit, realizing that this is so much more of a glimpse into her life – into Daniel’s mother’s life, than it is to Kent’s or Natalia’s. And that feels just so...incredibly intimate, to be seeing Kent through his wife’s eyes before she was even his wife...that I have to close the book.

I let it rest a moment on my lap and then, on impulse, I set it quickly aside. Like it will burn me, or curse me, or something – I don’t know.

I pick up my glass of wine and sit quietly in the chair for a long time, trying to parse through my emotions.

And I’m shocked, and a little scared, to find that the one that keeps rising to the top is...jealousy.

Jealous. I’m jealous of Lenai. I want to be the one who watched Kent grow up, who got to go on his first adventures with him, who took photos of him falling asleep on a train in the Italian countryside. I want to be the one who wondered what kind of man he’d turn out to be.

And quite suddenly I’m horribly, bitterly jealous of this woman. Which I know is ridiculous because she’s dead – she’s been dead for a long time, and I know Kent has moved on from her.

But she got so many wonderful moments with him – moments I’ll never have.

And I get what...a few stolen nights tucked away in his bedroom in secret? I mean, has he ever even touched me outside, in the light of day?

I curl up then, in my chair, tucking my face into my hands, completely overwhelmed by the realization that the best I’m ever going to get in Kent’s heart is second place.

Fall For My Ex's Mafia Father Chapter 0256 And I’m absolutely terrified by the realization that I want to be first. I want to mean more to him – I want to mean the most.

Because maybe that’s what he is to...

But no. I shut down the thought, making my mind turn to other things. My brain trips over itself in its attempt to find something new to mull over, and –

cruelly – it turns to Ivan. To what he said yesterday - that he offered me everything, and I’d picked an old, dead man over him. Someone who will never, ever love me.

And suddenly I feel just...horribly stupid.

God, what had I done?

Is this seriously it?

Did I turn down something that could have been great – the equivalent big love that Kent and Lenai had for each other – because I wanted to have sex with Kent? Did I seriously, seriously choose that? Just because Kent is hotter than Ivan – because that, I can finally admit to myself is true – but seriously, am I just a stupid girl who followed a hot guy down a path that’s going to lead to my death?

I start to panic a little bit now, pressing my hands over my mouth and forcing myself – forcing myself to take deep breaths.

A few long moments pass and I start to calm down. But what I need, I realize, is a distraction. A big one. Because if I keep going along with this line of thinking, I’m going to completely freak out.

So, I reach out for the top magazine on the pile closest to my chair and drag it in front of my face, making myself flick through the pages and concentrate on the lewd photographs and the pulp fiction of a vintage Playboy from the 70s.

It takes a while, but eventually through a combination of forcing myself to concentrate, and willfully pushing away my questions about how much Kent loved Lenai, and whether I’m an idiot who is going to die because she was to sex-addled to be smart enough to get herself away, I begin to calm down.