God, I can’t wait for him to get home so we can make up—properly this time.
“My mom is coming in for lunch today,” I say, already exhausted. “I doubt she’ll be long, and then we can go over the plans for Marco.”
Roxy rolls her eyes. “His assistant is so annoying.”
I glare at her. “Play nice. We need this showing.”
She clutches her chest dramatically. “I’m always nice. I’m just saying… he’s very particular.”
I shrug. “Most artists are about their work.”
I turn to Charlotte. “Would you like a quick tour?”
“I’d love one.” She smiles. “It’s so cool here. I love the gothic elements, but it’s still so cute.”
“Thank you,” I say, warmth blooming in my chest.
And I can’t help but think about what I could create with a gallery in Monaco. How, instead of the gothic vibe, I’d go for something lighter. Blues perhaps. Clean and bright.
By the time I show her the rooms, we end up in the kitchen.
“So,” Charlotte says, leaning against the counter with a grin. “You and Drago?”
“Yet to be determined.” I try to sound casual. “I like him, though.”
She sips her coffee. “I’d love to see Drago finally find his happy. He deserves it.”
I nod slowly. “You two are really close, right?”
I haven’t forged much of a friendship with Charlotte yet, not like Hallie or Bella. But I’ve seen the loyalty. The trust.
“I owe that man my life,” she says simply.
The front door opens, and my pulse spikes.
I tap the side of my mug, already bracing myself.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Wish me luck.”
Charlotte follows immediately as I head out.
And there she is. My mother—standing in the middle of my gallery like she owns the air inside it.
She looks… better today. Less worn out. Her makeup is done, and the deep red lipstick is bold against her pale skin. Her hair is freshly dyed, darker. Smoother.
“Mom,” I say cautiously.
She turns, and her face brightens into a beaming smile.
“Lily! You look beautiful,” she gushes, stepping back as if she needs to take me in properly.
Roxy appears beside me like a protective little guard dog. “I’ll go grab the coffees. What would you like?—”
“Maria,” I lean in and whisper.
Roxy’s lips press into a line, but she nods and turns to my mother again.
“I’d love a vanilla latte, please, dear,” my mom says.
