My jaw clenches. “Kiera is an incredible chef. The food she makes is better than most restaurants I’ve eaten at, including the ones you frequent.”
“Is that so?” Mother’s eyebrow arches. “Well, I suppose simple palates are easier to please.”
I set down my fork before I say something I’ll regret. The classical music playing softly overhead feels like it’s mocking me—all this civility and refinement wrapped around conversations that cut like knives.
“Why are we really here, Mother?” I ask quietly. “Because I know it’s not to enjoy provincial French toast or admire the architecture.”
She takes another sip of tea, and I can see her gathering herself. Preparing for whatever bomb she’s about to drop. I’ve seen this look before—the careful composure that precedes life-altering announcements delivered with clinical precision.
“You’re right, darling. We should discuss the real reason for my visit.” She sets down her teacup and folds her hands on the table. “I’ve been patient with you. I allowed you to come to this island, to pursue this documentary hobby, to play at being independent. But it’s time to come home.”
“This isn’t a hobby?—”
“I’ve pulled some strings,” she continues, talking over me like I haven’t spoken. “It wasn’t easy, given how late in the process we are, but I have connections on Stanford’s board. You’ve been accepted into their MBA program for the fall semester.”
The words hit me like cold water.
Stanford. MBA program. Fall semester.
She planned this. She came here not to see my life or understand what I’m building, but to pack me up and drag me back to California like a child who’s had enough playtime.
“I never applied to Stanford,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend.
“Of course you didn’t. That’s why I handled it for you.” She picks up her fork and cuts a small piece of French toast, though she doesn’t eat it. Just moves it to the side of her plate. “Your father and I have put up with this nonsense long enough, River. You’re twenty-three years old. It’s time to stop pretending to be a filmmaker and start building a real career.”
Heat floods up my neck and into my face. “Pretending?”
“Darling, please.” She sets down her fork with a soft clink. “This documentary of yours—about fishermen and small-town nostalgia—it’s sweet. Truly. But it’s not a career. It’s not something that will sustain you or bring honor to the family name.”
“Honor to the family name.” The words taste bitter. “Is that what this is about? You’re embarrassed that I’m not a lawyer or a businessman like everyone else?”
“I’m realistic about what makes a successful life.” Her voice remains calm, but there’s steel underneath. “And wasting your twenties on a doomed artistic pursuit is not it. Stanford will give you the credentials and connections you need. You’ll join your father’s brokerage firm, or one of the tech companies your brother has connections with. You’ll build something substantial.”
“Iambuilding something substantial.” I lean forward, trying to keep my voice down even as fury builds in my chest. “I’m making art that matters. I’m telling stories about real people and real communities that are disappearing. That means something, Mother. Even if you can’t see it.”
She sighs, like I’m a particularly stubborn child who won’t listen to reason. “I came here myself instead of sending your father because I thought you might need a gentle hand. A reminder that there are people who care about you and want what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me, or what looks best for you?”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t be dramatic. This is a fantastic opportunity. Stanford’s MBA program is one of the most prestigious in the country. Most people would kill for this chance.”
“Then let them have it.” I push my plate away, my appetite completely gone. “I don’t want it.”
“River—”
“You came here under false pretenses.” The words come out harsh, cutting. “You said you wanted to see where I was living. To understand my life here. But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? You came to manipulate me into going back to California and living the life you’ve decided I should have.”
Mother’s lips press into a thin line. “I came to help you see reason before you throw away your future entirely.”
“My future is here!” My voice rises slightly, and I catch the glances of other diners at nearby tables. I force myself to lower my volume. “I’m happy here, Mother. For the first time in years, I’m actually happy. I have work that matters to me. I have a community. I have?—”
I stop myself before I say Kiera’s name. Before I give Mother ammunition to use against the best thing that’s happened to me.
But Mother sees the hesitation. Of course she does. She’s spent her entire life reading people, finding their weaknesses, exploiting them with surgical precision.
“If you don’t come home with me,” she says quietly, “your father and I will have no choice but to cut you from the will.”
The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy and absolute.
