Chapter 8 - The UltimatumHelena Bennett’s gaze narrowed into two laser beams of pure, unadulterated maternal fury.
“Adrian Whitmore,” Helena said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly polite tone reserved for tax auditors and disgraced politicians. “What, exactly, are you doing in my daughter’s bedroom at nine o'clock in the morning?”
Claire was standing behind her mother, trying very hard to suppress a triumphant grin, looking like a master puppeteer admiring her finished marionettes.
Nora opened her mouth to speak—to offer some frantic, chaotic lie about plumbing emergencies, shared workspaces, or architectural blueprints—when Adrian cut her off entirely.
He didn't drop Nora’s hand. In fact, his grip tightened, firm and unwavering.
“I’m staying in this penthouse, Mrs. Bennett,” Adrian said, his voice level, resonant, and dripping with absolute authority. “And as for what I’m doing in Nora’s room... I’m making sure she knows that I have no intention of letting her walk out of my life a second time.”
Helena gasped, clutching her designer handbag against her chest like a shield. “After ten years? After the way you disrupted her entire college trajectory? You have some nerve showing your face here, let alone—”
“Mother, stop,” Nora interrupted. Her voice wasn't shaking anymore. She looked at her mother, then down at Adrian’s hand in hers, and felt a sudden, profound wave of clarity. She had spent ten years running from her own feelings, hiding behind excuses about timing and career goals. She was done running. “Adrian didn't ruin my life. I panicked because I was nineteen and terrified of how much I cared about him. And mom... you lied to him about my phone calls.”
Helena froze, her expression flickering with sudden guilt. “I did what was best for your future, Nora.”
“My future is mine to decide,” Nora said firmly, stepping closer to Adrian. She looked up at him, meeting his green eyes, and smiled softly. “And I’ve made my choice.”
Claire let out a very loud, dramatic sniffle, dabbing a nonexistent tear from her eye with a lace handkerchief. “Oh, thank goodness! I was running out of matchmaking ideas, and my wedding was about to become collateral damage.”
May you like
Helena stared at them both for a long, agonizing moment. Then, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh, she shook her head.
“Well,” Helena muttered, turning toward the door with her head held high. “At least the reception venue is already booked. Claire, come along. I need a very strong mimosa before I can process this catastrophe.”
