Then reality pressed in.
My mother was landing in three hours.
Harper had texted twice already, both messages short and sharp:
Call me when you’re awake.
We need to talk about him.
I slipped out of bed carefully. Cassian didn’t stir, his breathing deep and even, the faint scar along his collarbone rising and falling. I stood for a moment at the edge of the mattress, watching him sleep. Even unconscious he looked like a man who knew exactly where every exit was. That should have frightened me more than it did.
I padded into the bathroom, closed the door softly, and turned on the shower just to drown out the quiet. Under the spray I tried to organize my thoughts the way I always did—lists, priorities, contingencies. But the usual structure wouldn’t hold. Everything kept circling back to the same two questions:
What if my mother saw me with Cassian and recognized the irony?
What if she didn’t—and that hurt worse?
I dressed quickly—tailored trousers, cream silk blouse, low heels that said professional without screaming armor. When I came back into the bedroom, Cassian was sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed, watching me with that steady, unreadable gaze.
“You’re dressed for battle,” he said.
“I’m dressed for lunch with my mother.”
He tilted his head. “Same thing.”
I exhaled through my nose. “She lands at eleven-fifteen. I told her I’d meet her at The Mills House. She wants me there when she sees Daniel for the first time.”
Cassian nodded once. “You want me to come?”
The offer was quiet, no pressure behind it. That made it harder to answer.
“No,” I said. “Not yet. This is … hers. I need to see what she needs first.”
He accepted that without argument. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Simple. Certain. No sulking, no demands. Just presence.
I hated how much I relied on that already.
The drive to The Mills House was short—too short. Charleston slipped past in familiar pieces: Rainbow Row’s candy colors, the Battery’s live oaks dripping Spanish moss, tourists taking photos of wrought-iron gates. I parked in the hotelgarage, checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, and told myself I looked composed.
I didn’t feel it.
My mother was waiting in the lobby bar, perched on a high stool with a glass of sparkling water she hadn’t touched. She wore navy slacks and a cream cardigan, hair pinned neatly, the same careful look she’d worn my entire childhood. When she saw me, her shoulders dropped half an inch—relief, maybe fear.
“Lia.”
I hugged her. She smelled like lavender and airport coffee.
“You okay?” I asked.
She laughed—a thin, nervous sound. “No. But I’m here.”
We took a small table near the window. Sunlight slanted across the white tablecloth, catching the condensation on her glass.
“Tell me about Daniel,” I said.
She traced the rim with one finger. “He was … everything your father wasn’t. Wild. Funny. Took risks. Made me feel like the world was bigger than the one I’d been taught to want.”
