My mother is in my office when I return, examining my bookshelf with the critical eye she usually reserves for potential daughters-in-law.
“Darling.” She turns, all elegance in cream Chanel. “I hope you don't mind. Your assistant was so accommodating.”
“Mother. I don't have time for this.”
“You have five minutes before your next meeting. I checked with her.” She settles into the chair across from my desk like she's planning to stay. “The gala is next week.”
“I'm aware. I'm hosting it.”
“Alone?”
“Your cousins are all expanding their divisions—Ben just acquired that pharmaceutical company, Will's about to sell his tech venture for billions—and you're content planning galas?”
“I'm running Dad's foundation.”
“Which is admirable, darling, but the board wonders if you're hiding here instead of taking your proper place in the business.”
Here we go.
“I don't need a date to host a charity gala.”
“Need? No. But it would be nice.” She crosses her legs, getting comfortable for the long game. “Ainsley Pembroke just returned from London?—”
“Mother.”
“She's lovely, Evan. Sophisticated, well-traveled, excellent family?—”
“I'm not interested in Ainsley Pembroke.”
“You haven't even met her properly. Just one dinner?—”
“No.”
Her smile stays perfect while her eyes reproach me. She's been doing this since I was sixteen, this blend of concern and manipulation that makes saying no feel like a personal attack.
“I worry about you,” she says. “You work constantly. You never go anywhere that isn't business-related. When was the last time you were happy?”
The question catches me off guard. When was the last time?
Saturday afternoon. Holly explaining her vision for the beneficiary stories. Her eyes lighting up as she talked about interactive displays.
“I'm fine,” I say.
“You're alone.” She stands, smoothing her skirt. “I'm not asking you to fall in love with Ainsley. I'm asking you to stop closing yourself off from the possibility of connection. That's all I want for you.”
That's the worst part. She believes that her relentless matchmaking comes from love, not control. That she's helping, not suffocating.
“I have to go,” I tell her. “Planning meeting in five minutes.”
She sighs, recognizing defeat for now. “Think about what I said. Please.”
The problem isn't that she's wrong about me being alone. The problem is that she's right for all the wrong reasons. I'm not afraid of connection—I'm exhausted by the performance of it. Every relationship in my world comes with strings attached. Business mergers disguised as romance. Strategic alliances wrapped in dinner dates. My mother sees me “closing off” when really I'm just refusing to participate in another transaction.
Taylor is at the doorway. “Holly Bennett is here.”
“Great, send her in.”
I straighten the files on my desk, trying to shake off the conversation with my mother. Holly agreed to move our meeting without complaint when my "emergency" PR meeting—which turned out to be about my dating life, not an actual crisis—took our usual slot. Just sent a cheerful text saying she'd adjust her morning. My mother would have made the scheduling conflict everyone else's problem.
