Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me novel Chapter 209

Chapter 209

Four years later.

I’ve had the Thanksgiving dream so many times that I mentally prepare for it before I go to bed the night before.

And when eighteen–year–old me stands in front of the door of the two–story house I grew up in, she already knows what’s waiting beyond the rich mahogany door.

My dead parents. Dead June.

But tonight, when I push open that door, I’m not met with cold, eerie stillness. I pause at the entrance, wondering if I’ve stumbled into the wrong dream.

Soft humming floats from inside the house into the foyer, where I hover at the threshold. Along with the sound is the long–forgotten but still achingly familiar scent of lavender and spice.

I step over the threshold.

Usually, I find the bodies in the living room, sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace, but-

My feet falter, and I stiffen, not comprehending what my mind has conjured.

My mom is sitting on the couch, and the humming abruptly ceases as she turns to face me.

My breath hitches in my throat. Her features are a little blurred, like my brain can no longer clearly picture her face. But I feel the

warmth in her eyes, her smile. She’s alive.

“Mom,” I choke out.

“Oh, my baby,” she says softly, her arms opening. “Come here.”

I move so fast my feet barely touch the ground.

Sinking into her embrace feels like returning home after being away for a long, long time.

Her familiar scent wraps around me, and my arms tighten around her as she whispers, “Oh, I’ve missed you, my love.”

Emotion clogs my throat. Missing doesn’t even begin to quantify the emptiness in my chest I’ve carried for twenty–seven years.

I have a husband, a sister, two foster moms, and several friends. But the mom–and–dad–shaped hole will forever remain unfilled.

“How have you been?” she asks, pulling back just enough to look at me.

I swallow hard. “Good?”

She laughs. “That’s it? Didn’t you marry that Ashford boy you had the biggest crush on?”

A breathless laugh whooshes out of me. “You remember that?”

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“Of course.” She cups my cheek. “You used to doodle Mrs. April Ashford on every printable surface *

I chuckle. “Yeah, I married him. It’s been four years.”

She beams, pride shining through her blurry features. “Tell me everything.”

So I do. I tell my mom about the most amazing four years of my life so far with the love of my life. How I fall in love with him a little more every day, how he makes my world shine a little brighter.

Then I tell her about my fashion house, House of Spring. How I’m finally living yet another dream I never thought was possible.

After four years, my fashion house has a distinct style and loyal following, with collections featured online and in boutiques. We’re profitable, growing steadily, and building quite a buzz already–and we’re only just getting started.

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