When it's finally over, my dress hangs in the closet like a guillotine.Makeup tested. Hair pinned into an elaborate arrangement, ready for this evening.
I'm granted thirty minutes of "rest" before Ewan expects me downstairs for a briefing on tonight's expectations.
I use the time to walk.
Ewan doesn't like me wandering near Hale's study schedule, but he needs me compliant for his party tonight. Which means he'll tolerate small misdoings today. He may use them against me later, but I want to see my baby.
Hale is in the hallway when I round the corner, his small hand wrapped in his nanny's grip as she leads him toward the playroom. He's wearing the blue sweater I bought him last winter—the one with little sailboats on the sleeves—and his hair is sticking up in the back the way it always does after his afternoon quiet time.
Just seeing him well and happy wipes away all the exhaustion I've been carrying.
He spots me instantly. "Mamma!"
I crouch and open my arms wide, every cell in my body desperate to hold him.
He tries to run to me, but the nanny's grip tightens, holding him back.
Her face is apologetic, but her hand doesn't loosen. She has her orders. We both know what happens to staff who disobey them.
I pause for a second before standing and slowly approaching them.
"Hey, my love. I missed you."
"Can I show you my drawing? I made a dragon. It hasthreeheads."
I glance up at the nanny, and she shakes her head.
Fuck her.
"That sounds amazing, baby. I?—"
"Mrs. Calder. Mr. Calder asked that Hale not be disturbed during his afternoon activities." Her voice is pointed.
His own mother is a disruption. A problem to be managed.
I force down the consuming rage. "Of course."
Hale's face crumples. "But I want to show Mamma?—"
"Tomorrow." I smile through the splinters in my heart. "You can show me tomorrow, okay? I promise."
He pouts, unconvinced, but lets the nanny lead him away, looking back at me over his shoulder—confusion and hurt swimming in those big, beautiful eyes.
Tristan's eyes.
My son has his father's eyes, and his father has no idea he exists.
Or does he?
Stop. Just stop.
I'm driving myself insane with this. Seeing patterns that aren't there. Wanting something so badly that I'm willing to twist reality to make it fit.
Henri is not Tristan.
Henri is a guard who showed me unexpected kindness, and my stupid brain is trying to make that mean more than it does.
That's all.
