I don’t know what to say. We never talk about Dad. It’s the silent agreement our family made years ago—pretend he doesn’t exist, and the wound doesn’t have to heal because we never acknowledge it’s there.
“I know you think I’m hard on you,” she continues. Her voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “I am. I know I am.”
“Mom—”
“I watched your father chase every dream that glittered. Every opportunity that excited him. And when it all fell apart—when he realized Singapore was just another fantasy—I was the one left holding everything together. The mortgage. The girls. My entire life, rebuilt from rubble because I trusted someone who couldn’t tell the difference between passion and delusion.”
No wonder “influencer” sounded like “mistake” to her ears. She wasn’t trying to crush my dreams. She was trying to protect me from repeating hers.
My throat tightens. “I’m not Dad.”
“No.” She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see something I’ve never seen before: fear.
“But you have his spark. That terrifies me, Poppy. Because I remember what it was like to believe in someone’s spark, and I remember what it cost me when it burned out.”
She turns back to the water. “I don’t want you to end up—” She stops. Shakes her head. “Never mind. You’re an adult. You’ll make your own choices. You always have.”
She finishes her wine and walks back inside before I can respond.
I stand at the railing, trying to process what just happened.
My mother didn’t apologize. She didn’t take back years of criticism or suddenly declare her support for my career. But she’d shown me something she’d never shown me before.
The fear underneath.
I always knew my mother loved me. Her possibly drunken confession just let me know she’d been trying to save me from becoming my dad.
I head back in, except now I have to pass Preston and Serenity to get to Julian.
This night isn’t getting any better, is it?
Preston gives me a look I can’t quite read as Serenity steers him toward the elevators. Violet hugs me tight and whispers, “I’m so glad you’re here,” which almost makes me cry. “Don’t forget that the bridesmaids are meeting at nine sharp for hair and makeup. Mom will flip out if you’re late.”
“I know, I know,” I do my best mom impression. “‘Sharp means sharp, Poppy, not nine-fifteen.’”
We laugh, and then a guest pulls Vi away.
It nearly bums me out, then I feel Julian’s hand on my lower back. Steady. Present. A reminder that I’m not navigating this alone.
We walk back to our suite in comfortable silence. The tropical night is warm, thick with the scent of jasmine and sea salt. I can hear the waves somewhere in the darkness, rhythmic and eternal.
I love you.
He said it. At the dinner table, with Damien watching from the bar and my family oblivious around us. He looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in two and a half centuries of existence, and he said those three words.
And I said them back.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. Then buzzes again. And again.
Julian’s mouth curves. “Sage?”
“How did you know?”
“The vibration pattern. She texts in bursts of six to eight messages. No one else does that.”
“You’ve memorized my best friend’s texting rhythm?”
“I’ve memorized everything about you.” He says it simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “The way you breathe when you’re nervous. The way your pulse changes when you’re thinking about something that makes you happy. The way you hum under your breath when you’re choosing an outfit.”
