Momma didn’t flinch. Didn’t pretend not to know who I meant.
“I did,” she said after a long moment. Her gaze was fixed just past me, on the creeping ivy clinging to the brick wall behind our table. “More than I should have. More than was good for me.”
Daddy’s fork stilled on his plate.
“I was supposed to marry him,” she said, her voice soft and bare. “An alliance, if you will. Power and legacy, all very romantic in a twisted sort of way. But I loved him, Sloane. Not just what he could do for my father. I loved the man.”
“And then he married Charlie’s mother.”
She gave a humorless laugh. “Yes. He chose Caroline. The sweet, sweet socialite with her pearls and her friends and her spotless reputation.” She lifted her coffee, took a sip. “He broke me.”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“No. You didn’t.”
Beside her, Daddy cleared his throat but didn’t speak. The weight of history hung between them.
“But I love your father, too, of course,” Momma said, glancing sideways. “Just ... not quite the same way.”
Daddy’s jaw flexed, but he nodded, eyes glassy. “I know.”
“You’ve kept me safe,” she whispered to Daddy. “You’ve built a life where I could feel whole again. And that’s love, too. The kind that lasts.”
I looked at them—these flawed, messy people who’d raised me inside a bubble of privilege and secrets. And for the first time, I saw not titans or ghosts but a woman grieving the past and a man who’d stood by her anyway.
“I love you both,” I said. “Even when I didn’t understand you.”
Neither spoke, but my mother reached across the table and brushed my hand with her fingertips. Just once.
Daddy broke the silence first.
“So,” he said carefully, “this boy. Charlie.” His tone was cautious. “Is it serious?”
I met his eyes. “It is.”
He studied me, like he was seeing something in me he hadn’t noticed before. “You always did run headfirst into things.”
“Not like this,” I said. “This is different. He’s different.”
Momma gave a soft, skeptical hum, but she didn’t argue. Not outright. “He’s Byron’s son.”
“I know.”
She tilted her head. “And you’re not worried about what that means? What kind of damage you’re dragging through your bloodline?”
“Every bloodline has damage,” I said. “Even yours.”
That earned a pause. Then she looked down, fiddling with her hem.
Daddy cleared his throat again. “Will you be going back to Palm Beach when all this is over?”
I hesitated. A bird sang overhead, sweet and unbothered, as if we weren’t sitting beneath the weight of decades and secrets.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m not sure that version of me fits anymore. I don’t want to go back to taking selfies with curated lattes and pretending every overpriced serum is the secret to eternal youth.”
My mother frowned. “That was your career.”
“It was a mask,” I said gently. “A way to hide in plain sight. But I think I’m done hawking designer bullshit for people who care more about filters than what really matters in life. If I make it through this … I might stay in Charleston.”
