Signatures.
Her mother’s, bold, decisive, unmistakable.
Keir’s, smaller than she expects.Controlled.Careful.Almost like someone trying not to tremble.
“He signed it,” Isla whispers.
“Under threat,” Callum says.
“He could have fought.”
“He would have lost,” Callum replies.“And he knew the collateral damage would be you.”
Isla’s chest tightens painfully.
“So he stayed away,” she says, the words scraping out of her throat.“And sent money.”
“Yes.”
“Faithfully.”
“Yes.”
She laughs softly, hollow.“I never questioned that.”
Callum crouches in front of her, bringing himself to eye level.“He did exactly what the agreement allowed.And nothing more.”
The truth settles, heavy and final.
“Why didn’t my mother tell me?”Isla asks, voice small.“Why didn’t Keir come see me after I turned eighteen?She couldn’t do anything to him then.”
Callum pauses.“Because telling you would’ve meant admitting she chose control.And how could he explain his absence without making your mother look like a monster?”
Isla closes her eyes.The word she keeps circling lands again.
Managed.
Her childhood suddenly rearranges itself in her mind, memories snapping into new alignment.
The nannies who came and went.
The tutors.
The carefully chosen schools.
The way her mother controlled her schedule down to the minute.
Practice.Lessons.Travel.Performance.A constant message of you have to be a great pianist.What happened to the messages about love and acceptance?
Always moving forward.Never looking back.
“My life was efficient,” Isla says slowly.“That’s what everyone praised.”
Callum doesn’t interrupt.
“They said I was disciplined.Focused.Mature for my age.”Her mouth twists.“No one ever said I was happy.”
Callum’s jaw tightens.
