I glance toward the bar. Carmen is watching us with an expression I’ve never seen before. Acceptance.
“Miracles do happen,” I murmur.
“I told you.” He pulls back, grinning. “I’m very charming.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He kisses my forehead. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for being here.”
For being in my corner. For defending me. For reminding me what I’m worth.
The words stay unspoken, but his eyes tell me he hears them anyway.
The rest of the evening passes in a warm blur. More conversations, more champagne, more dancing. But something has shifted. The weight I’ve been carrying feels lighter and the impossible standards less crushing.
By the time we leave, it’s nearly midnight. My mother catches us at the door, pulling me into a hug that lasts longer than protocol demands.
“Drive safe,” she says. “And Isadora?”
“Yes?”
“Bring him to dinner after the showcase. I’d like to know him better.”
It’s not an apology. Carmen Solis doesn’t apologize. But it’s something. A start.
“I will,” I say.
Mal opens the car door for me, and I slide into the leather seat with a sigh.
“Well?” he asks, settling behind the wheel. “Verdict on the evening?”
“Exhausting. Emotional. Unexpectedly cathartic.” I reach across and take his hand. “And I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You could have.” He squeezes my fingers. “But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”
The engine purrs to life.
“Take me home?” I ask.
“Always.”
And as the country club disappears in the rearview mirror, I realize that home isn’t a place at all. It’s whoever’s holding your hand when the night gets dark.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The cottage is dark when Mal drops me off, but I don’t bother turning on the lights.
Sleep won’t come tonight. I can feel it in the restless energy humming beneath my skin, the thoughts spinning too fast for stillness. The conversation with my mother keeps replaying—her words, her face, the crack in her armor that I never expected to see.
I’ve been so afraid of losing you the way I lost him.
I kick off my heels and let them land wherever they fall. The champagne dress follows, pooling on the floor in a way that would have horrified me three months ago. Now I just step over it, pulling on leggings and an old tank top that’s more holes than fabric.
The studio key is cold in my palm.
I shouldn’t go. It’s nearly one in the morning. I have a children’s class at nine and a mountain of paperwork that won’t complete itself. Going to the studio now is impractical, irresponsible, exactly the kind of undisciplined behavior my mother would?—
