▪︎𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦,
𝗜'𝗱 𝗱𝗶𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁
𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂.
in which an ordinary girl soon finds out that she's not as ordinary as she once thought, all while trying to hide her f...
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♡ 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪♡ 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 eighty-two.
a feast fit for gods.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
WARNING: ADULT AND EXPLICIT CONTENT TOWARDS END OF CHAPTER.
MARILYN GARCIA WAS FIERCELY PROTECTIVE.
Especially, undoubtedly, most definitely when it came to her daughter.
James said she couldn't see her -- so she didn't. Or, in better terms, she never let Dallas see her.
She saw Dallas all the time. From observing her day-to-day free periods at school to her walks home (just to make sure they were always safe), to her occasional visits to friends.
It was all in the name of motherhood.
The proclivity to make sure her daughter was fed, full, and fawned was just as instinctive as breathing and blinking. James could toss his empty threats into her net all he wanted, he'd be the one all tangled up in the loopholes, not her.
A garnet scarf wrapped around her hair and a pair of sunglasses slid down her sloped nose. Soft lullabies echoed from her car radio and porcelain pearl-white nail polish remained chipless as she dug them into the steering wheel.
Dallas could visit her friends. Sure, have fun, sweetheart.
But Derek Hale wasn't a friend.
Dallie's oversized jacket and too-thin-for-the-weather shorts disappeared into the darkness as she climbed to the loft. A smile was plastered across her young face, as charming as Marilyn always remembered, but frowned when it was painted for Derek. Not her.
Her seatbelt swung to the side as she wriggled out of its sling. Not him. Not them.
Boots slid against graphite as she fumbled her way after her, heels hot like hand-crafted hellfire. Her scarf was coming loose. Her sunglasses hid hopeful eyes.
It didn't matter how her dress tore at the seams when she climbed the concrete stairs. Or how her ears couldn't pick up the voices above as they were just a little too far away.
She wanted to hear it. She wanted to hear the good news. She wanted to be a good mother somehow, someway.
Her ankles tipped sideways as the mumbling above her head, circulating like an auditory halo, became clearer and more cohesive with each step.
