She reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her palm is warm. Steady. Her thumb finds my pulse point at my wrist, rests there like she's checking I'm still alive.
"Richard proposed."
I blink. Once. Twice. My brain can't process the words.
"I said yes."
The world tilts.
No—not tilts. Shifts. Everything goes sideways for a second, my vision swimming. Like someone picked up the entire apartment and moved it three feet to the left, and now nothing's quite where it should be.
"Max?" Her thumb strokes across my knuckles. Gentle. Soothing. The way she used to when I'd wake up screaming from nightmares. "Say something, honey."
"I—" My throat's too tight. I swallow hard. Once. Twice. "That's—congratulations. I'm happy for you. I am."
And I mean it. I do.
Richard Graves is... fine. He's good to Margot. Makes her laugh. A real laugh, the kind that throws her head back and shows the happiness in her face. Takes her to fancy restaurants and weekend getaways she'd never spend money on herself. He's successful, stable, everything Linda wasn't.
But marriage.
Marriage.
"You're not happy," Margot says softly. Her eyes search my face, reading every micro-expression I'm trying to hide.
"No! I am. Really." I squeeze her hand. My fingers tighten around hers, maybe too hard. "You deserve this. You deserve someone who—who treats you right."
"But?"
I pull my hand back, the loss of contact immediate and cold, reach for my cider. Take a sip I don't taste. The bubbles burn my throat. I don't even register the flavor.
"What does this mean?" I ask. The glass is slippery in my palm, condensation making it hard to grip. "For us?"
"Nothing changes between us," she says immediately. Fiercely. She leans forward, both hands flat on the table, eyes locked on mine. "You're my son, Max. Adoption papers, lastname Carter like mine, everything—you're mine. That doesn't change just because I'm getting married."
"But we'll move."
It's not a question.
She nods. Slow. Deliberate. "Richard has a house. An estate, actually. There's plenty of room—"
"An estate." I laugh, but it comes out wrong. Hollow. More like a cough. More like choking. "Margot, I work at a bookstore and take night classes at community college. I don't do estates."
"You'll fit in fine."
"Will I?"
The question hangs between us. Heavy. Suffocating.
Because we both know the answer. I don't fit anywhere. Never have.
"His sons live there," Margot says carefully. Her voice drops, goes softer, like she's trying to cushion the blow. "Three of them. Atlas is the oldest—twenty-nine, I think. Then Zero and Bane. They run the family business with Richard."
Three sons.
Successful men with successful lives who won't want their father's new wife's charity case hanging around.
"They're excited to meet you," Margot adds. But her eyes don't quite meet mine when she says it.
