"I know." Charity's expression softens, just slightly. "But you never let yourselves love me. Not as Charity. Only as Grace's replacement."
The Roman coin walks across my knuckles—nervous habit. I still, forcing my hand to be calm. This isn't about me. This is Charity stepping into her power, and my job is to stand here and radiate support.
Mrs. Pembroke's eyes are shining with unshed tears. "We thought keeping her room exactly as she left it would honor her memory. But we never talked about her, never grieved properly. We just… froze that day along with her room."
"You turned me into the shrine instead." Charity's not angry anymore, just honest. "Every piano lesson, every society event, every 'perfect daughter' performance—it was all for her. Never for me."
"You seemed so content," her father says, and he actually sounds confused. Like he genuinely believed the performance.
"Iwas terrified." Charity glances at me, and I give her a small nod.Keep going. You've got this."Terrified that if I stepped out of line, you’d take your affection away. So I played the part you needed. Until I couldn't anymore."
Another silence. This one feels different—less hostile, more raw.
Mr. Pembroke clears his throat. "The sculpture is… remarkable." He's struggling, trying to find solid ground. "We had no idea you were capable of such work."
"You never asked what I was capable of." Charity's words are simple, devastating. "You told me what to be and expected me to comply."
"And you've been living… where, exactly?" Mrs. Pembroke's tone shifts, practical concerns taking over. "We assumed you'd run through your savings months ago, living with—" She cuts herself off, but we all know what she was going to say.
I almost laugh. Almost.
"We have an apartment in Manhattan," Charity says. "Small, but it's ours. We're doing fine, actually."
"More than fine," I add, because I can't help myself. "I've got a decent amount in my bank account if we need it, but we don't. Turns out ancient gladiator reflexes make for good entertainment. Who knew?"
Mr. Pembroke's eyebrows rise. "You're… supporting yourselves?"
"Shocking, right?" Charity's smile is genuine now, amused. "I sold three pieces this month. Major collectors. And Draco performs at venues across the city—he's booked solid through spring."
"We're happy," I say, and I let them hear the truth in it. "Actually happy. Not performing happiness. Living it."
Mrs. Pembroke looks at her daughter—really looks at her—and something shifts in her expression. Maybe it's the confidence in Charity's stance. Maybe it's the joy that radiates from her despite the difficult conversation. Maybe it's just that she's finally seeing Charity instead of Grace's ghost.
"You look well," she says softly. "Different than I expected."
"I look like myself," Charity corrects gently. "Maybe for the first time."
Her father is studying the sculpture, and I watch him process it—the technical skill, the artistic vision, the raw talent they never knew their daughter possessed. When he turns back, his expression has changed too.
"We made mistakes," he says. It's not an apology, not quite. But it's acknowledgment, and that's something. "We were… we didn't know how to lose one daughter and raise another."
"You didn't have to choose," Charity says. "You could have just loved me as I was."
"We did love you." Mrs. Pembroke's voice breaks slightly. "We do love you. We just… we failed to show it properly."
It's not enough. Not yet. But it's a start.
Charity reaches for my hand, and I give it to her immediately. Our fingers intertwine, and I feel her draw strength from the contact. "I need you to understand something," she says to her parents. "Draco didn't steal me away or corrupt me or any of the things your friends probably said.He helped me find myself. He saw who I really was even though I'd forgotten."
"The street performer," her father says, and there's less disdain in his voice than before.
"The gladiator," I correct. "The survivor. The man who understands that freedom matters more than gold." I squeeze Charity's hand. "And the man who loves your daughter exactly as she is."
Mrs. Pembroke dabs at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "We've been… we've handled this poorly. All of it."
"Yes," Charity agrees. "You have."
"Can we—" Her mother hesitates, looking up at her husband who looks at her for an intense moment before giving her a slight nod of his head. Looking back at her daughter, eyes glassy with unshed tears, voice quivering. "Could we perhaps start over? Not forget, but… begin again?"
