The emphasis on the word makes heat climb my neck. They're not stupid. They can read subtext as well as anyone, and the messages on my phone are full of it.
"Yes," I say. Then, because I'm tired of lying: "Maybe more than that."
Mother stands abruptly. "I beg your pardon?"
"I've been seeing someone." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff. "His name is Draco. He's kind and talented, and he makes me feel like I can actually breathe for the first time in my life."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Father speaks first, his voice dangerously calm. "And where did you meet this person?"
I can't tell them the truth. Can’t exactly tell her I found him hiding in Grace’s cottage because he was broke and desperate and I chose to help him over calling security. That would be the end of everything.
"Around the city," I say vaguely. "We have common interests."
"Common interests." Mother's laugh is sharp. "Charity, you barely leave the property. How exactly did you meet someone 'around the city'?"
"I've been going out more." I lift my chin, defensive. "You've always said I should be more social."
"We said you should attend appropriate social functions with appropriate people." Mother's voice is rising now, that careful control starting to crack. "Not—notgallivanting around Manhattan with strangers we know nothing about!"
"He's not a stranger to me."
"But he is to us!" She presses her fingers to her temples like I'm giving her a migraine. "You know nothing about this person. His family. His background. His—his intentions."
The word lands like a slap. Intentions.
Because that's what this is really about. Not my safety. Not my happiness. My suitability as a potential Pembroke match.
"He's a performer," I say, and watch both their faces pale. "A magician. He does street shows and underground venues."
Father sets down his coffee cup with enough force for the liquid to spill into the porcelain saucer. "I see."
Two words. That's all it takes for me to understand exactly what they're thinking. A street performer. Not a lawyer or a doctor or a CEO. Not someone from a "good family." A performer. Practically a circus act.
"Before you say anything—" I start, but Mother cuts me off.
"We won't say anything yet." Her voice has gone cold. Controlled. The tone she uses when she's already made up her mind and is just waiting for everyone else to catch up. "But we will meet him."
"What?"
"If you insist on continuing this… association," Father says carefully, "then we'll need to meet this young man properly. Assess whether he's suitable."
Suitable. The word makes my chest tight with anger.
"You want toassesshim?" I force the words out evenly. "Like he's a business investment?"
"Like he's someone who's spending time with our daughter," Mother corrects. "Someone we know nothing about who's apparently been seeing you without our knowledge for weeks." She straightens her cardigan with sharp movements. "We'll have him to dinner. This Friday. Seven o'clock. I'll have cook prepare something nice."
It's not an invitation. It's a command.
And I know exactly what they're planning. The formal table setting. The subtle tests of etiquette and background. The questions designed to make him feel inadequate. They're going to try to prove he's not good enough, so I'll see reason and end things before the relationship becomes an embarrassment.
"Fine," I say, because refusing will only make things worse. "I'll invite him."
"Good." Mother's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm sure this… performer will be… delightful."
The dismissal is clear. Father returns to his newspaper. Mother picks up her coffee. The breakfast non-conversation resumes as if nothing happened.
