Chapter 187
Nora's POV
The living room was nothing like I'd imagined. Yes, it was luxurious. A cashmere throw draped carelessly over the back of a leather sofa. Fresh flowers arranged in a crystal vase sat on the table. Family photos in silver frames scattered across a mahogany shelf.
Diana guided me to sit on the sofa, her hand lightly resting on my elbow. "Please, sit. You must be exhausted from the long flight."
I lowered myself onto the chair, hyper-aware of my posture. Spine straight. Hands folded in my lap. Ankles crossed. Every nerve in my body screamed don't screw this up.
A woman in a crisp uniform appeared with a silver tray—delicate porcelain cups, a pot of tea, and an arrangement of pastries that looked like they belonged in a bakery window. She set it down without a word and disappeared as quietly as she'd come.
Diana poured tea into two cups, her movements graceful and unhurried. "Julian mentioned you've been working non-stop lately. I hope the trip wasn't too disruptive."
"Not at all," I said quickly. "I'm grateful for the invitation."
She smiled, but there was something assessing in her gaze. Not hostile—just observant. Like she was cataloging every word, every gesture, filing them away for later review.
"I brought you something." She reached for a small gift box on the side table and placed it in my hands.
I hesitated, then carefully peeled back the wrapping paper. Inside was a jar of hand cream and a small vial of essential oil.
"Julian told me you're often out in the field," Diana said softly. "I thought these might help you relax. Lavender and chamomile—they're supposed to ease tension." She paused, her expression warm but distant. "I used to do community outreach work when I was younger. Nothing on the scale of what you do, of course, but I remember how draining it could be."
My throat tightened. I hadn't expected this—this kindness, this thoughtfulness. "Thank you. That's... incredibly generous."
She waved a hand, dismissive but pleased. "It's nothing. Just a small gesture."
But it wasn't nothing. It was calculated, deliberate. She'd done her homework.
I cradled the box in my lap, fingers tracing the ribbon's edge. For a brief, disorienting moment, I thought of my own mother. The way she used to leave little notes in my lunchbox. The way she'd rub peppermint oil on my temples when I had migraines.
I blinked hard, forcing the memory down.
Julian leaned forward from where he sat on the adjacent sofa, his hand finding mine. His thumb brushed across my knuckles—a silent reminder that I wasn't alone in this.
I squeezed back.
---
Diana set down her cup, folding her hands in her lap. "So, Nora. Julian's told me a bit about your work, but I'd love to hear it from you. What made you decide to become a journalist?"
I'd been expecting this. The polite interrogation. The "get to know you" conversation that was really about determining whether I was worthy of her son.
I straightened, slipping into the role I'd rehearsed a hundred times in my head. Professional. Composed. Likable.
"I've always been drawn to storytelling," I said carefully. "When I was younger, I worked as a caseworker, and I saw how often vulnerable people's voices got ignored. Journalism felt like a way to amplify those voices—to make sure their stories were heard."
Diana nodded slowly. "And your family? Are they supportive of your career?"
My chest tightened. "My mother passed away recently. But my aunt and uncle have been incredibly supportive."
"I'm sorry for your loss." Diana's tone was genuine, but there was something else beneath it. Pity, maybe. Or concern. "Julian mentioned you've been through a great deal. You're very strong."
I forced a smile. "I'm just doing what I can."
She studied me for a moment longer, then glanced at Julian. Something unspoken passed between them.
Julian stood, extending a hand to me. "Mom, Nora's been traveling all day. How about I show her the greenhouse? She might enjoy seeing the orchids."
Diana's expression brightened. "Of course. The phalaenopsis are blooming beautifully right now. Pick a few to take back if you like."
I rose, gripping Julian's hand like a lifeline.
---
The moment we stepped into the hallway, I exhaled hard, like I'd been holding my breath underwater.
Julian's hands settled on my shoulders, warm and steadying. "You were sitting like a soldier waiting for inspection."
I shot him a glare over my shoulder. "That's your fault. I'm about to explode from nerves."
He laughed softly. "She likes you."
"How can you tell?"
He squeezed my shoulders gently. "Trust me. If she didn't approve, you'd know."
I leaned into his touch, letting some of the tension bleed out of my muscles. "I feel like I'm auditioning for a role I'm not qualified for."
"You're not auditioning for anything." His voice was firm, reassuring. "You're just being yourself. And that's enough."
I believed him.
We walked down the long corridor. I slowed, drawn to one photograph in particular—a young Diana cradling a baby in her arms, her face radiant with joy.
"That's me," Julian said quietly. "The day I was born. My mom had just graduated from law school."
I stared at the image. Diana looked so young. So full of light.
"She wasn't always like this," Julian continued. "The political world changes people. But at her core, she's still the woman in that picture. She just hides it better now."
I nodded, unable to look away from the photo.
Julian tugged my hand gently. "Come on. The greenhouse is this way."
---
The greenhouse was a cathedral of glass and green—humid, fragrant, alive. Sunlight filtered through the translucent panels, casting dappled shadows across rows of orchids, succulents, and cascading vines.
I stopped just inside the entrance, overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it.
"This is incredible," I breathed.
Julian's arms slid around my waist from behind, his chin resting on top of my head. "I thought you'd like it."
I leaned back against him, letting his warmth seep into my bones. We stood there in silence, surrounded by blooms and birdsong.
Julian released me and moved toward a workbench lined with gardening tools. He picked up a pair of pruning shears, then crouched beside a cluster of roses—deep red blooms with velvety petals.
He worked with surprising dexterity, trimming stems at precise angles, stripping away excess leaves. Within minutes, he'd assembled a small bouquet—roses, white bellflowers, green lily of the valley.
He tied it together with twine and handed it to me.
I stared at him. "How do you know how to do this?"
"My mom used to drag me out here every summer," he said, brushing dirt off his hands. "She said men should know how to care for living things. That it builds character."
I cradled the bouquet against my chest, inhaling the mingled scents. "Thank you."
He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Anytime you want flowers, just ask."