We have a job to do.
Sliding through the crowd, we try our best not to draw attention to ourselves.
I know that at this point in the party, my mother waits in the center, engineering every glance and gesture. Playing the perfect hostess, as always.
My heart pounds, echoing in my ears as my gaze lands on her.
This is it.
The moment we can’t undo.
We’re walking into the spotlight, both of us in necessary roles that don’t quite fit us.
Eleanor Hearst is poised at the heart of her circle, a diamond among dignitaries. A delicate updo sits at the back of her head, a few carefully chosen loose strands framing her cheeks. Her navy cocktail dress, complemented by subtle makeup, shimmers in the chandelier light. She holds champagne in one hand and drapes the other on the governor’s sleeve.
She laughs at his quiet remark, her head tilted back just enough for the jewels at her throat to glint in the light like stars trapped against skin.
Time hasn’t touched her. She’s still beautiful.
Untouchable.
And impossible to satisfy.
Familiar rage surges through me, biting and hot as ever. For years, I’ve carried this same anger like a second skin.
This woman chose polish and chilly perfection over warmth and love. She tried to wipe my father from the face of the earth as completely as she might blot a red-wine spill from silk.
Kirill picks up on my mood shift instantly. “You found her?”
I can’t get words past the lump in my throat, so I nod.
My mother spins around, still laughing, her gaze sweeping the ballroom with the grace of a perfect hostess who’s cataloguing faces, weighing details, and orchestrating her world.
As soon as her eyes find mine, that social smile vanishes.
She steps away from the governor without an explanation.
My pulse hitches. Maybe she has changed. I’ve never seen her commit a mistake like that in public.
Her lips form my name.
I brace myself for the look that will say I’m not enough. The lethal comments disguised as compliments. The inventory of my failures written on her face before she even opens her mouth.
But her expression…breaks.
The mask splits right down the middle. As moisture glistens in her eyes, shock seizes my limbs. This is Eleanor Hearst, whohas ice for a heart and Teflon-coated skin. A woman who’s never truly put her meticulous mascara to the test.
She closes the distance between us, stopping short a few feet away with her hands suspended in mid-air, as if afraid I’ll vanish if she touches me.
“Jordan?” She breathes out my name on a tentative exhale.
“Mom.” My reply is quiet. Uncertain. The rush of seeing her after so long sears me open.
Love, wild and blind, mixes with terror and leaves me wobbling. The old panic that I’ll never be enough, never fit her script, surges to the front of my mind like a tsunami.
I push down the fear. She can’t send me away, lock me up, or force me into a dress to play the part she wants anymore. I’m a grown woman. I rule my own destiny now.
I will only survive the night if I maintain control over everything I think, say, and feel.
