"Are you genuinely happy," she repeats, and there's something in her voice I don't recognize. Something that might almost be... concern? Genuine concern, not the performative kind she usually deploys. "With them. With this life you've chosen. Are you actually happy?"
I swallow hard, caught off guard by the sincerity of the question. "Yes," I say quietly. "I am. Genuinely happy."
Silence stretches across the line. My mother is never silent. She fills every gap in conversation with opinions and observations and thinly veiled criticisms. Silence from her is so unusual that it makes me nervous.
"Mom?" I venture. "Are you... okay? You're never this quiet. Usually you're complaining about something by now."
"I was looking at the photographs," she says finally, and her voice sounds strange--thoughtful in a way I'm not used to. "The ones from the ball. The ones from the competition. And I noticed something."
I brace myself for criticism. My posture was wrong. My hair wasn't styled correctly. My smile was too wide or too small or somehow inadequate.
"Your eyes," she continues quietly. "They're shining. Actually shining, Rosemarie. That's the first time I've seen that in... a very long time. The last time was when you graduated. When you won that silly award."
"Mom." I can't help the indignation that creeps into my voice. "I was number one in a nationwide competition for creating Starbucks's most trending seasonal coffee. They sold over two million units of my recipe. That's not silly."
"Yes, yes, very impressive." She dismisses it with the same hand-wave she's been giving my coffee accomplishments for years. "But you came second in the math competition in third grade. Second! To that Hendricks boy who picked his nose constantly. Horrendous."
"I was eight!" I sputter. "And Tommy Hendricks was a math prodigy! He went to MIT at fourteen!"
"Still. Second place." She sniffs, but there's no real heat in it. It almost sounds like... teasing? Like the kind of gentle ribbing that normal families engage in?
What is happening right now? Is my mother actually being... warm?
"Mom," I say slowly, hardly daring to hope. "Why are you really calling?"
Another pause. Then: "Stay happy, Rosemarie. With those men of yours. I'll talk with your father."
My heart stutters in my chest. "Mom, are you saying..."
"I have business deals to attend to," she interrupts briskly, her efficient-businesswoman mask sliding back into place. "We're going to Singapore in three days for the Chanel runway show. Very exclusive. I need to coordinate outfits. Goodbye!"
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I stand there, frozen in the middle of the bakery, staring at my phone like it's grown a second screen. The call lasted less than five minutes, but it feels like my entire world has shifted on its axis.
Stay happy. I'll talk with your father.
Did my mother just... give me her blessing? In her own convoluted, emotionally constipated way, did she just tell me that she approves? That she's going to convince my father to let me go?
A lump forms in my throat that I can't quite swallow past. I've spent so long fighting against my family, running from their expectations and their plans for my life. I'd made peace with the idea that I'd never have their approval, that choosing happiness meant choosing to be an outsider in my own bloodline forever.
But maybe... maybe I was wrong. Maybe there's a version of this story where I get to have both--my pack and my family, even if that family is complicated and difficult and has some serious boundary issues.
"You okay?" Mila's voice cuts through my daze. She's watching me with concern, a dish towel twisted in her hands. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or like your mother called."
"Both, kind of," I manage, my voice coming out slightly strangled. "My mother called. And she was... nice? I think? She told me to stay happy and that she'd talk to my father about... about everything, I guess?"
Mila's eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. "Your mother. The one who literally hired bounty hunters to drag you to an arranged mating ceremony. That mother?"
"That's the one." I laugh, but it comes out watery. "She saw pictures of me in the paper. Said my eyes were shining for the first time since graduation. And then she told me to stay happy and hung up before I could process any of it."
"Wow." Mila blinks several times, clearly as stunned as I am. "That's... actually kind of beautiful? In a weird, emotionally-unavailable-rich-people kind of way?"
"I think she gave me her blessing," I whisper, because saying it out loud makes it feel more real. "I think my mother just told me she's okay with my pack."
"Rosemarie." Mila reaches out and squeezes my arm. "Go home. Process this. Cry if you need to. And then go be happy with your Alphas on Valentine's Day without any guilt about your family hanging over you."
I nod, not trusting my voice. I gather the rest of my things--fingers trembling slightly--and head toward the front door of the bakery.
