Chapter 33 Chapter 33
Theodore and Victor exchanged glances over their sister's head, both recognising their mother's genuine artistic appreciation, something they hadn't witnessed in years. Bryce, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement as he examined the other designs spread across the table.
"The market for these would be substantial," he said, his entrepreneurial mind already calculating possibilities. "Have you considered production scaling?"
Iris nodded, her confidence growing as the conversation shifted to familiar territory. "I've been developing relationships with several small-batch manufacturers. My business plan projects reaching broader distribution within three years."
Tony watched her with undisguised admiration. This was the Iris he had first been drawn to, focused, competent, with a clear vision of her future. Even surrounded by the overwhelming reality of her newfound family, her core identity remained intact.
"I was saving up to rent a small workshop space," Iris continued, her practical nature asserting itself. "The university facilities are excellent for prototyping, but limited for production."
Dianne's eyes lit up. "I have a studio," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Sculpture and art workshop. I haven't used it in..." She stopped abruptly, pain flickering across her face. "In a very long time. But all the equipment is there. Top-of-the-line."
Richard squeezed his wife's hand, understanding what this offer cost her emotionally. The studio had been Dianne's sanctuary before Roxanne's kidnapping. Afterward, she had locked the door and never returned, unable to face the creative joy that had been shattered by grief.
"Mother's work was quite renowned," Theodore explained gently. "She specialised in sculptural pieces that were exhibited in galleries internationally."
Iris absorbed this information, another piece of her genetic heritage falling into place. Her natural affinity for three-dimensional design wasn't random chance; it was literally in her blood.
"I'd like to see the studio," she said, careful to frame it as interest in the workspace rather than pressure on Dianne. "If that would be all right."
Dianne's hand trembled slightly as she returned the pendant to Iris. "Yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think it's time."
The Lawson brothers exchanged surprised glances. Their mother had refused to even discuss the studio for nearly two decades, its locked door a physical manifestation of her grief. That she would willingly open it after all this time.
Iris’s phone went off it was a Discord private message from Christy Miller:
Well, well, look who just became big news on campus, the Lawsons and the Kennedy heir. What is going on?
The campus is a buzz, and for some reason, Mrs Watson wasn’t pissed that you won’t be in class, considering you were on campus.
Tell me or not, I’ll find out you know I will.
Iris stared at her phone, the familiar anxiety of campus gossip adding another layer to her already overwhelming day. She set the device face down on the table, unwilling to engage with Christy's probing questions. The campus rumour mill would have to wait; she had more immediate concerns.
"Everything alright?" Tony asked quietly.
"Just classmates noticing I disappeared with the Lawsons and you," she replied, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil. "News travels fast."
Richard's brow furrowed with concern. "We should issue a statement soon. The speculation will only intensify."
Dianne rose from her seat with surprising determination, her earlier fragility temporarily masked by purpose. "The statement can wait. First, I want to show Iris the studio."
She extended her hand to Iris, the gesture both an invitation and a plea. After a moment's hesitation, Iris accepted it, feeling the slight tremor in her birth mother's fingers as they closed around hers.
The Lawson brothers exchanged glances of astonishment. For twenty years, their mother had refused to even discuss her abandoned art career. That she would willingly approach the studio now, with a daughter she had only just rediscovered, spoke volumes about the profound impact of this reunion.
"This way," Dianne said softly, leading Iris toward a corridor that branched off from the main sitting room.
Richard watched his wife and daughter walk away, emotion tightening his chest. "She hasn't opened that door since the night you were taken," he explained to Iris, his voice low. "Not once in twenty years."
Tony remained seated, uncertain whether to follow. Theodore noticed his hesitation and nodded slightly, indicating he should stay behind. This moment between mother and daughter needed no audience.
The corridor Dianne led Iris down was lined with artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photographs that chronicled the family's history. Iris noticed that the pieces seemed to stop abruptly around twenty years ago, as if the family's aesthetic life had been frozen in time.
"My work is through here," Dianne explained, stopping before an ornately carved wooden door at the end of the hall. A small, tarnished keyhole was visible beneath the handle, suggesting it had indeed been locked for many years.
From her pocket, Dianne withdrew an antique silver key. It gleamed in the soft hallway light, polished despite its disuse. She had carried it with her every day for twenty years, unable to use it but equally unable to let it go.
"I always thought," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "that when I found you, I might find my art again too." Her fingers trembled as she inserted the key into the lock. "Both were taken from me that night."
The mechanism turned with surprising ease, maintained over the years by household staff who understood its significance without being told. As the door swung open, dust motes danced in the shaft of afternoon light that spilled into the long-neglected space. The studio beyond was frozen in time, a large, airy room with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, overlooking what appeared to be a private sculpture garden. Sheets draped over furniture and equipment like ghosts of creativity past, their outlines suggesting workbenches, display stands, and specialised tools.
Dianne stood at the threshold, one hand still gripping the doorframe as if she might collapse without its support. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, the sight of her abandoned sanctuary overwhelming her after so many years of avoidance.