Chapter 81

Cecilia

The city skyline came into view as our plane descended, and I felt something in my chest tighten.

Arthur's hand found mine across the armrest. "You okay?"

"I don’t know." I looked down at the ring on my finger.

"About?"

"My mother." The words came out before I could stop them. "Carter said she's at the old house. I should probably—I don't know. See her?"

Arthur's expression shifted into something careful. "You don't have to do that today. You're still recovering. We can—"

"I want to." I squeezed his hand. "Get it over with, you know? Besides, she came all the way back from Europe. It would be rude not to at least say hello."

"Ceci—"

"I'll be fine," I said, with more confidence than I felt. "It's just my mother. What's the worst that could happen?"

The old house looked exactly as I remembered it—a brownstone in one of those quiet neighborhoods. My father had bought it when I was five, the three of us have lived here for four years.

Arthur pulled up to the curb and killed the engine, he came around to help me out of the car, his hand steady on my elbow as I found my balance.

The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open, calling out, "Hello? Mom?"

No answer.

I stepped inside, Arthur close behind me, and immediately felt the weight of memory pressing down.

"Mom?" I called again, moving deeper into the house. "It's Cecilia. Carter said you were—"

I stopped dead in the doorway to the living room.

My mother was on the couch. And she wasn't alone.

A man—young, maybe college-aged—was pressed against her, his hands in her hair, their mouths locked together with an intensity that made my stomach turn. They were so engrossed they hadn't even heard me come in.

"What the fuck," I said, my voice flat and cold.

They broke apart. The boy—because that's what he was, a boy—scrambled back, his face flushed, looking between me and my mother with obvious panic.

Evelyn Locke—I want to call her that, for her part, looked completely unruffled.

She smoothed down her dress, tucked a strand of perfectly coiffed hair behind her ear, and smiled at me like I'd just walked in on her having tea instead of making out with someone young enough to be her son.

"Cecilia," she said warmly. "Darling, you're here. I wasn't expecting you quite so soon."

"Clearly." I couldn't move, couldn't process what I was seeing.

"James," my mother said to the boy, her tone dismissive, "you should go."

James—James—didn't need to be told twice. He practically sprinted past me, muttering something that might have been an apology, and then the front door was slamming and it was just the three of us.

"Well," my mother said, standing and crossing toward me with her arms outstretched. "That was awkward. But let's not dwell on it, shall we? Come here, darling. Let me look at you."

"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended, and she paused, her expression flickering with something that might have been hurt if I didn't know better. "Don't touch me right now."

"Cecilia—"

"How could you?" My voice was shaking now, all the shock giving way to anger. "How could you bring someone here? To this house? Dad's house?"

"Oh, sweetheart." Her tone was patient, condescending, the way you'd talk to a child throwing a tantrum. "Your father's been gone for thirteen years. This is just a house. And Europe was so oppressive. The count—my husband—he's very traditional. Very controlling. I needed to breathe."

"So you came back here," I said slowly, "to Dad's house, and decided to—what? Relive your youth by making out with college students?"

"Don't be dramatic." She waved a hand dismissively. "James is a perfectly nice young man. A graduate student, actually. Very intelligent. We met for the first time today."

She moved closer again, and this time I didn't stop her. Her arms came around me in a hug that felt practiced, performative, like she was going through the motions of maternal affection without actually feeling any of it.

But god help me, I hugged her back. Because despite everything—despite the years of neglect, despite walking in on her with that boy, despite knowing she'd never really loved me—part of me still desperately wanted a mother.

"I've missed you," she murmured into my hair, and I wanted so badly to believe her.

She pulled back, her hands moving to cup my face, and that's when her gaze landed on my hands. Specifically, on the two rings.

"What's this?" Her tone was light, curious, but something in her eyes went sharp.

I looked down at the rings—the first one Arthur had given me when I came back to the city, and the engagement ring.

"Arthur and I are together," I said, unable to keep the smile from my voice despite everything. "He proposed. We're engaged."

My mother's smile didn't reach her eyes. "How... wonderful," she said, and the pause before 'wonderful' was so slight I almost missed it. "Congratulations, darling."

She turned to Arthur, who'd been standing silently by the door this whole time, watching. "Thank you, Arthur. For taking such good care of my daughter all these years."

"It was my honor," Arthur said, his voice carefully neutral.

"I'm sure it was." Something flickered across her face—amusement, maybe, or calculation. "Well, now that you're back, Cecilia, you should stay here. With me. We have so much catching up to do."

"She's not staying," Arthur said before I could respond. His tone was polite but firm, the voice of someone who'd made a decision and wasn't open to negotiation. "Cecilia's still recovering from her injuries. She needs rest and proper medical supervision."

My mother's gaze sharpened, landing on my cast, my bandaged leg. "Injuries? What happened?"

"I fell," I said. "In the desert. It's—I'm fine. Just need to take it easy for a while."

"Oh, sweetheart." She reached for me again, and this time her concern seemed genuine, her hands gentle as she examined my cast. "You poor thing. Are you in pain? Do you need anything?"

"I'm okay," I said, and was surprised to find I meant it. "Really. The doctors said I'll be fine in a few weeks."

We talked for a little while longer—surface-level catching up, the kind of conversation you have with someone you're related to but don't actually know.

She told me about Europe, about the count and his estates and the endless round of social obligations that had apparently driven her to seek comfort in the arms of graduate students.

I told her about work, about the company, about Alice and the villa and everything that had happened. I didn't tell her about William Winston's arrest, about the investigation into my father's death, about any of the things that actually mattered.

Finally, Arthur stood. "We should go. Cecilia needs to rest."

"Of course." My mother walked us to the door, her hand light on my shoulder. "Do come and visit me regularly."

"Sure," I said, knowing I probably wouldn't.

Arthur helped me back to the car, his silence speaking volumes. I waited until we were several blocks away before I said anything.

"I know."

He glanced at me. "Know what?"