Mother gasps—actually gasps. Even Father leans forward, fascinated despite himself.
"How did you—" Mother starts.
"The real magic…," Draco continues, "… isn't the trick itself. It's the wonder. The moment when you believe something impossible might actually be real."
He sets the quarters on the table between us, then looks at my parents with unwavering directness.
"That's what Charity did for me. She looked at a broke stranger hiding in her cottage and saw potential instead of a problem. She chose wonder over fear. And if you think that makes her naïve or foolish, then you don't know your daughter at all."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Mother stares at the quarters as if they might jump at her. Father's expression has shifted from disapproval to something more complex—perhaps grudging respect, or maybe just confusion.
Then Mother speaks, voice carefully controlled. "That's quite impressive. However, parlor tricks aren't a substitute for stability or prospects."
"You're absolutely right," Draco says gently. "They're not. But neither is old money or social standing or any of the other markers you're using to measure my worth." He pauses. "I've spent my life being judged by metrics that don’t matter. Too poor, too low-class, too different. And maybe by your standards, I’m not suitable. But Charity doesn't judge by your standards. She judges by her own."
I look at my place setting—the perfectly arranged silverware, the correct glasses in the correct order. All the rules I've been following my entire life because breaking them meant disappointing people I was desperate to please.
My hand moves before my brain catches up.
I deliberately pick up my salad fork—which I've already used—and use it to eat my lamb.
It's wrong. Completely wrong. You're supposed to work from the outside in, using each utensil once in the proper order.
Mother's eyes widen. "Charity—"
"I'm making my own choices," I say quietly. "Starting now."
It's a small rebellion. Petty, even. But it's mine.
Father sets down his silverware with a soft click. "I think we need to have a family conversation. Privately."
"Anything you need to say, you can say in front of Draco." I keep my voice steady despite my racing heart. "He's not going anywhere."
"Charity Marie Pembroke—" Mother starts, using my full name like a weapon.
"I'm twenty-five years old," I interrupt. "I've lived in this house my entire life, following every rule you set, attending every approved event, becoming exactly what you wanted me to be. And I'mdone."
The words hang in the air like acrid smoke. Mother's face has gone white. Father looks like I've slapped him.
"Done?" Father repeats carefully.
"Done pretending to be Grace." My voice cracks on her name. "Done being your second-chance daughter who has to be perfect to make up for the one you lost. Done letting you decide who I am based on who you wish I could be."
Mother stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "How dare you—"
"She's right."
The words come from Draco, quiet but firm. He stands slowly, taking a half-step closer–not blocking me, but standing close enough to show his support.
"Your daughter is brilliant and talented and capable of making her own decisions," he says to my parents. "She's an artist—selling work that brings in real money, work that matters. She's braver than you give her credit for. And she deserves parents who see her instead of the ghost they're trying to resurrect."
The room goes absolutely silent.
Then Mother stands and walks out without a word. Father follows after a moment, pausing at the doorway to look back at me.
"We'll discuss this later, young lady," he says. It's not a threat, exactly. More like a promise of consequences.
