Chapter 92: As a Guest

Cecilia

The moment we were back in our bedroom with the door closed, Arthur turned to face me, his expression serious.

"We need to talk about your mother," he said.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. "I know."

"We give her something," Arthur said slowly. "Just enough to make her think she has a foothold, but not enough for her to actually gain any real access."

"We let her come as a guest." I said, understanding dawning.

"Exactly. But we make it clear that there's a professional team handling everything. Caterers, decorators, coordinators—all of it. She can attend, but she doesn't get to help plan anything. She doesn't get to be involved."

I studied his face, seeing the calculation behind his eyes. "You think that'll be enough to satisfy her?"

"No." His answer was blunt. "But it'll buy us time to figure out what she really wants."

A chill ran down my spine. "You think there's more to this than just... wanting to reconnect?"

"Your mother doesn't do anything without a reason, Ceci." His voice was gentle but firm. "She abandoned you for twelve years. Now suddenly she's back, acting like mother of the year."

I wanted to argue, to defend her somehow, but the words wouldn't come. Because he was right. Everything about her sudden reappearance felt wrong—too convenient, too perfectly timed.

"Okay," I said finally. "We tell her she can come to the party. But nothing else."

"Good." He pulled me against his chest, and I let myself relax into his warmth. "And then we get the hell out of here and go home."

"Home," I repeated, testing the word. "You mean Black Peak."

"I mean home." His voice was firm. "Where you belong. Where we both belong."

I tilted my head to look up at him. "You've been planning this for a while, haven't you?"

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe."

"Arthur Winston." I poked him in the chest. "You've been scheming to get me back to Black Peak since the moment I moved into this apartment."

"Scheming is such a harsh word." But his smile widened. "I prefer 'strategically arranging circumstances in my favor.'"

I laughed despite myself. "You're impossible."

"I'm in love." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "There's a difference."

The next morning, we found my mother in the kitchen, already dressed and made up like she was about to attend a luncheon at the Metropolitan Club.

"Good morning, darlings," she said, pouring herself coffee with hands that weren't quite steady. "Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you." Arthur's voice was polite but distant, and I felt him shift slightly closer to me, a subtle claiming of territory. "We've made a decision about the engagement party."

Her eyes lit up, and she set down her coffee cup a little too quickly, liquid sloshing over the rim. "Oh?"

"We'd love for you to attend," I said, forcing warmth into my voice even as I watched her face carefully, cataloging every micro-expression.

"Oh, Cecilia!" She pressed a hand to her chest, and for a moment I almost believed the emotion in her voice. "I'm so honored. I promise I'll help with everything—the flowers, the catering, the guest list—"

"Actually," Arthur cut in smoothly, "we wanted to let you know that we've already hired a professional team to handle all of that. Top-tier event coordinators, florists—the works. Everything's taken care of."

I watched her, saw the flash of something sharp in her eyes before she covered it with a bright, brittle smile. Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.

"Oh," she said, voice strained. "I see. Well, that's... that's wonderful that you've thought of everything. But surely there's something I could help with? Even just small details—the invitations, perhaps, or the seating arrangements—"

I said gently but firmly. "Mother. We don't want you to worry about a thing. You can just enjoy celebrating with us."

"But I want to help." The words came out sharper than she'd probably intended, and she immediately tried to soften them with a laugh that sounded forced. "I mean, it's my only daughter's engagement party. Surely there's some way I can contribute—"

"Your presence is contribution enough," Arthur said, his tone brooking no argument.

Something flickered across her face—anger—before she smoothed it away. "Of course. Of course, you're right. I'm just so excited, I suppose I got a bit carried away."

She picked up her coffee cup again, and I noticed her hand was trembling slightly. "When is the party? I'll need to find something appropriate to wear."

"We’ll send you the exact time once everything is ready," I said. "We're heading to Black Peak now, so—"

"Now?" The cup clattered against the saucer. "So soon? But I thought—that is, I assumed you were going in the afternoon."

"We have a lot to prepare," Arthur said, his voice cool and final. "The estate needs to be ready, and I have business matters that require my attention."

I saw my mother's face carefully, saw the calculation in her eyes as she weighed her options. For a moment, I thought she might push harder, might make one more attempt to worm her way into our plans.

But then something seemed to shift, and she smiled—that same bright, brittle smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Of course, of course." She waved a hand, the gesture a little too expansive, a little too theatrical. "You two go ahead. I'll be perfectly fine here. I have plenty to keep me occupied."

She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And I'm sure we'll have lots of time to catch up at the party. It'll be such a special day."

Something in her tone made my skin prickle—a note of something dark and determined underneath the cheerful words. I glanced at Arthur and saw that he'd caught it too, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"We should get going," he said, placing a hand on the small of my back. "Long drive ahead."

"Of course, of course." My mother came around the counter, and I tensed as she pulled me into a hug that felt as genuine as a politician's handshake. "I'm so proud of you, Cecilia. So very proud."

I hugged her back mechanically, feeling nothing but the uncomfortable press of her body against mine and the cloying scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral that made my stomach turn.

When she pulled away, I caught a glimpse of her eyes—hard and calculating despite her smile—and a chill ran down my spine.

She knows we're shutting her out, I thought. And she's not going to accept it.