The valet has already taken Mal’s car—a sleek black thing that had materialized three weeks ago and which I’d learned not to ask about. He’d insisted on driving, claiming that arriving in my sensible Honda would “undermine the carefully constructed air of mystery” he’d been cultivating.
I hadn’t argued. Arguing with Mal about dramatic gestures is like arguing with the tide about coming in.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. Uncertainty keeps you sharp.” He squeezes my hip briefly. “I’ll be right beside you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Isadora.” He turns me to face him, his dark eyes serious. “Whatever happens in there, I need you to remember something.”
“What?”
“You are extraordinary. Not because of her approval. Not because of your accomplishments. Not because of anything you’ve done or failed to do.” His thumb traces my jaw. “You simply are. And nothing she says can change that.”
My throat tightens. “Mal?—”
“Ready now?”
I take a breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
He opens the door.
The country club’s main ballroom has been transformed into a vision of elegant minimalism that screams Carmen Solis from every precisely placed flower arrangement. White orchids. Crystal chandeliers dimmed to that specific golden glow that photographs well. Servers in crisp black uniforms circulating with expensive champagne in crystal flutes
Approximately eighty people fill the space—old dance colleagues, local society figures, and a scattering of faces I vaguely recognize from childhood. My mother’s world, carefully curated to reflect her impeccable taste.
“Impressive,” Mal murmurs.
“She’s had sixty years to perfect her aesthetic.”
“Fifty-eight,” a familiar voice cuts in. “I do hope you’re not adding years to my age, Isadora.”
My mother emerges from a cluster of admirers like a queen accepting tribute. She’s wearing midnight blue silk that somehow manages to look both modest and devastating, with her dark hair swept up in a style that probably took two hours and appears effortlessly tossed together.
She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful.
“Happy birthday, Mother.” I step forward to accept the ritual air-kiss to each cheek. “You look wonderful.”
“I look tired. That new facialist was a mistake—far too heavy-handed with the serums.” Her gaze flicks over my dress, my hair, my makeup, cataloging and evaluating in the span of a heartbeat. “Champagne. Safe choice.”
And here we go.
“I thought it suited the occasion.”
“Mm.” Noncommittal. Already dismissive. “And this must be the mysterious plus-one I’ve been hearing about.”
She turns her attention to Mal, and I watch her perform the same instant assessment. But the cut of his suit is impeccable, his shoes are Italian and expensive, and he carries himself with an innate confidence. Her eyebrow goes up a fraction of an inch.
“Malachi Vexis.” He extends his hand with a smile that’s charming without being sycophantic. “It’s an honor to finally meet the woman who raised such an extraordinary daughter.”
Oh, he’s good.
My mother accepts the handshake, her rings glinting in the chandelier light.
“Vexis. I don’t recognize the name. What family?”
