“He’s quite the catch,” she says without preamble. “Handsome. Charming. Obviously wealthy.” A pause. “Where’s the flaw?”
“Excuse me?”
“No one is that perfect, Isadora. There’s always something lurking underneath.” She turns to face me, her expression unreadable. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He’s a three-hundred-and-fifty-year-old demon bound by an infernal contract that I’m apparently helping him escape.
“There’s nothing to tell. We met at the studio. We’re partners for the showcase.”
“Partners.” She says the word like it’s coated in something distasteful. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“What would you prefer?”
“The truth would be refreshing.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re different with him. Softer. More distracted. I saw the way you looked at him during the Watson conversation—like you’d forgotten anyone else was in the room.”
“That’s not?—”
“Don’t.” Her voice sharpens. “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know what infatuation looks like, Isadora. I’ve seen enough of it in my students over the years. The question is whether you’re thinking clearly or letting your emotions compromise your judgment.”
The criticism lands exactly where it’s meant to—the soft vulnerable center of every fear I’ve been carrying.
“My judgment is fine.”
“Is it? The studio has been struggling for months. You’re entering a showcase that requires extensive preparation. And now you’re involved with a man who appeared out of nowhere with no verifiable background?” She shakes her head. “This isn’t like you. You’re usually so... controlled.”
Controlled. Like that’s a compliment.
“Maybe I’m tired of being controlled.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. My mother’s eyebrow arches again, and then her expression turns harder.
“Is that so?”
“I’ve spent my entire life trying to meet your standards. Every choice, every decision, filtered through the question of whether you’d approve.” My voice is shaking. I can’t seem to stop it. “And you know what I’ve learned? It doesn’t matter. Nothing I do will ever be good enough.”
“Isadora—”
“No.” I hold up a hand. “I’m not finished. The studio is fine. Better than fine—we’ve had more enrollment this quarter than the past two years combined. The showcase is going to bespectacular. And Mal?” I take a breath. “Mal is the best thing that’s happened to me in years. He sees me. Not what I can accomplish or what I should be achieving. Just me. And I’m not going to apologize for wanting that.”
Silence.
My mother stares at me like she’s seeing someone unfamiliar. A stranger wearing her daughter’s face.
“Well,” she says finally. “That was quite a speech.”
“I meant every word.”
“I’m sure you did.” She turns away, looking out over the darkened gardens. “You’ve always had passion, Isadora. It’s what made you a good dancer. But passion without discipline is just chaos.”
“Maybe chaos isn’t always bad.”
A pause. “Perhaps,” she adds unexpectedly, and I blink.
“What?”
“I said perhaps.” She still won’t look at me. “Your father was chaos incarnate. Brilliant and impossible and utterly incapable of following anyone’s expectations. I spent years trying to change him before I realized that was what I loved about him.”
My father. She never talks about my father. He died when I was three in a car accident on a rainy highway, and my mother sealed that chapter of her life so thoroughly that even photographs feel forbidden.
