We were always going to find each other.
She made sure of it, even before she knew my name.
Chapter Fifteen
Charity
Perhaps I’d gotten complacent. After I showed him my workshop, we fell into something that felt almost like a life. Although we slept in different houses, we shared almost every other hour of the day. I showed him all of my art pieces, even the ones I deemed not good enough to sell. He always found something to praise, even as he acknowledged that now I can do so much better. I spend most evenings with him practicing the little feats of magic he teaches me. Neither of us says it, but we’re circling something big—taking our time, letting the trust settle.
Then, today, I made a huge mistake, leaving my phone on the breakfast table.
I didn't even realize I'd done it at first. Was too busy floating through the morning in a haze of contentment, replaying yesterday in the workshop—my hands guiding Draco’s as I taught him to weld, the way he looked at my dragon sculpture like it was something sacred, the kiss that left me breathless against the workbench.
I make it all the way through breakfast with Mother and Father, nodding in the right places during their discussion of the upcoming charity gala, before I notice my phone isn't in my pocket.
My stomach drops.
I left it on the table. Face up. Unlocked.
Right next to Mother's coffee cup.
"Excuse me," I murmur, standing abruptly enough that Father glances up from his newspaper with mild concern.
"Are you feeling well, Charity?" Mother asks. "You've barely touched your eggs."
"I'm fine. It’s just—I forgot something in my room."
I'm already moving toward the table where I left my phone, but Mother's faster. She picks it up with that delicate grip she uses for things that might be distasteful, her perfectly manicured fingers holding it like it might contaminate her.
"You left this, dear." She glances at the screen, and I watch her expression shift from mild concern to frozen displeasure. "Who—or what—is Draco?"
The name hangs in the air like an accusation.
Father lowers his newspaper. The room goes very quiet.
"A friend," I manage, though my voice comes out too high. Too defensive.
"A friend." Mother's tone could freeze water. She's reading the screen now, and I know exactly what she's seeing—the text thread from this morning. Draco's message about Lucky learning a new trick. My response with aheart emoji. His follow-up, asking if I wanted to try the new Thai place in the Village tonight.
Evidence of a life she doesn’t oversee. A person she’s never met. Plans that don’t need her permission.
"Charity." Father's voice is measured. Careful. The tone he uses in board meetings when someone has made a critical error. "Would you care to explain why you're making dinner plans with a stranger?"
"He's not a stranger." The words come out sharper than I intend. "I've known him for weeks."
"Weeks?" Mother sets my phone down like it's burning her fingers. "You've been seeing someone for weeks and didn't think to mention it to us?"
"I didn't think it was relevant."
The lie tastes wrong on my tongue. Of course, it's relevant. Everything about my life is relevant to them—they've made sure of that for twenty-five years.
Mother's jaw tightens. "Not relevant. You're making plans to go to—" she glances at my phone again, distaste curling her lip "—theVillagewith someone we've never met, and you don't think that's information we should have?"
"I'm twenty-five." Meeting her eyes feels like stepping into a spotlight. "And friendships aren’t something you get to decide for me."
The words hang there, sharp and dangerous, and my pulse spikes so hard I feel it in my throat. Terror flickers through me—God, I actually said that—but beneath the fear, something steadier unfurls. Pride. A thin, trembling threadof it, but mine.
"Friends." Father folds his newspaper with precise movements. "Is that what this young man is? A friend?"
