I take a breath and answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Lucas, darling.” Her voice is warm and composed, polished like silver but not cold. It’s a voice that has comforted foreign dignitaries and family friends alike. “I was just checking in about the gala. Your father mentioned you hadn’t RSVP’d yet.”
Of course he did.
The Carmichael Foundation Gala. Black tie, donor schmoozing, political networking disguised as charity.
“I’ll be there,” I say, starting my car.
“Wonderful. When do you think you’ll be up to visit? Afew days before, perhaps? The Bishops will be there, of course, and Madeline has been asking about you.”
Of course she has. Despite my unplanned Vegas elopement, my father is clearly still pushing the Carmichael-Bishop merger.
“Actually, Mom, I’ll be bringing someone with me.”
A beat of silence. “Oh? Instead of Madeline?”
“Yes. My wife.”
The word slips out before I realize it, and something shifts in my chest. My wife. Jess. Jessica Carmichael. The name has a rhythm to it I hadn’t noticed before.
My mother is silent long enough that I check to see if the call dropped.
“Mom?”
“Your wife,” she repeats carefully. “I thought your father said you were arranging an annulment.”
“Nope,” I say. A beat of silence follows.
“I see.” Her tone is unreadable. “Lucas, are you happy?”
The question catches me off guard. My mother has always been the perfect political spouse. She’s supportive, elegant, and unfailingly appropriate, but she’s always been my biggest supporter, even when I’ve made decisions that go against my father’s wishes.
“I am,” I answer, surprised to find I’m not entirely lying. “Jess is… She challenges me. Makes me think. She’s brilliant and fearless and completely herself, no matter the consequences.”
“You sound like you admire her very much.”
“I do.” I pause, realizing I’m revealing more than I intended. “She’s not who Dad would have chosen for me.”
“No,” my mother agrees softly, “but I’ve never cared about that as much as he does. I’ve only ever wanted my children to be happy and healthy. If Jess makes you happy, then I’m truly happy for you, and I can’t wait to meet her.”
There’s a sincerity in her voice that makes a lump form in my throat. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll let your father know?—”
“No,” I cut in quickly. “Let it be a surprise. I’ll handle any backlash.”
After another moment of conversation and promises to send details about our travel plans, we hang up. As I sit there, a wave of something like panic washes over me.
Christ. I’m lying to everyone.
The guilt hits harder than expected. I’ve spent my career crafting narratives, but those were for movies and talent, not my family, not people I care about. Not Austin, who shared his sister’s vulnerabilities with me out of genuine concern. Not my mother, who sounded truly happy for me.
Worse, I’m starting to believe my own spin. The truth is, parts of what I told Austin weren’t fabricated at all. I was instantly attracted to Jess eight years ago. I did think about her for weeks afterward. And when I called her my wife just now…
“It’s just proximity,” I mutter as I start the car. “A chemical reaction. Nothing more.”
eleven
