A Waltz With Wolves (Book II in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Eleven: Eyes Wide Open

**

I walked back to my office building, but instead of entering my office, I entered my car and drove home.

A myriad of thoughts was flooding my mind as I sped down the busy Downtown LA streets, but more importantly, I felt more liberated than I had felt before. Those words I said right in Sebastian's face marked the first time I actively stood up for myself without regretting it after. But not only did I not regret it, I couldn't stop. I was smiling during this drive, like a cage I was stuck in had finally been opened. The threat of my mother and Sebastian's vengeance by pursuing Claire somehow managed to spark an opposite reaction in me.

So now that I am home, I have left my phone in the living room on vibrate. The only sound comes from Pedro's collar as he runs around my feet, begging for my attention. And I give it to him; I think even he is surprised at how differently I'm acting. But why not? What good is it to wallow in sadness and anger?

The first thing I do when I walk into my room is see myself in the mirror. The adrenaline coursing through my veins won't cease; it invades my thoughts as I stare deeply at my rundown reflection. The reflection that never seems to change, that hasn't changed for the last twelve years. My attire—gray, white, and black. My makeup—bland, boring, and emphasizing the flaws in my face more than without makeup. And as for my hair—I've worn my hair this way, up in a tight bun, ever since I had gotten out of recovery for my eating disorders. I was malnourished then, so my hair paid much of the price as it began to fall out. I wore it up to hide the repercussions, and for the last decade I never took it down, although my health is better than it was back then; I always felt that people could somehow notice that my hair was still falling out even when it wasn't.

I look at myself, at these things, and see that I have remained unchanged. And this normality is reason as to why I constantly become hurt, no matter how hard I try to help instead. I want to change; I need to change. And with this thought, I act on impulse by kicking off my heels, opening my closet and pulling off all my clothes from their hangers. My pencil skirts, button-up shirts, blazers, slacks that are too large for my body, and the rest of my clothes that I wear when I'm not working. And it's sad to say that the amount of clothes I have for casual wear is extremely small compared to the clothes I wear for work.

I'll admit that my heart hurts removing these clothes from my closet. I have worn these articles of clothing for years, over and over again. And I have placed my trust in them tremendously; they are roomy, comfortable, and leave everything to the imagination. I don't necessarily like these clothes; these clothes seem to like me, though. Too much, even. They've molded themselves into me as a person. So I have to throw them out.

By the time I'm finished, my closet is practically empty. I haven't gone shopping in years. Years. Whenever I would see something that I liked in a display window, I decided against it because of how it would make me look—"too revealing," "people will judge me," "my cleavage would be way too exposed." I sounded exactly like my mother.

I'm going to put these clothes in a bag and give them to goodwill. I'm going to do it. It's the first process to moving on to who I want to be. I force myself to leave my room to go get a garbage bag, and eventually I walk out into the hallway out into my living room. But before I can even make it into the kitchen, I hear my phone vibrate. I tell myself not to answer it, frankly because the last thing I need is more stress, hence why I abandoned my phone when I walked in here. But I check it only to satiate my anxiety, and the text messages I receive leave me at a standstill:

SEBASTIAN:

We need to talk. Tomorrow at 1?

ALEJANDRO: