The morning light poured gently into the dining room, filtered through sheer curtains that softened the edges of the world. Clara Cole believed breakfast should always be served in sunlight—no matter the weather, no matter the mood. She said it set the tone for the day, and Adrian had grown used to the ritual, even if he rarely shared her sentimentality.
Today, however, the golden light seemed less like warmth and more like interrogation.
Adrian sat at the head of the table, nursing a black coffee, his mind still fogged from too little sleep. His tie hung loose around his neck, his suit jacket draped carelessly over the back of his chair. He was never careless, not truly, but this morning his thoughts had been elsewhere—on a pair of dark eyes, on a smile that burned.
Clara moved gracefully about the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her silver-streaked hair tied neatly in a bun. She had set down a plate of toast and fruit when she caught it—the flicker on her son's face, barely there, but unmistakable to a mother's eye.
"You're smiling," she said, narrowing her gaze.
Adrian arched one dark brow over the rim of his coffee mug. "I'm not."
"You are." Clara abandoned the pretense of serving and leaned across the table, tapping the corner of his mouth with her finger. "Right there. That's a smile."
Adrian sighed, long-suffering, as if he were still a boy being scolded for sneaking into his father's study. "Mother, not every expression means something."
"It does," Clara said briskly, "when my son comes home past one in the morning smelling of expensive perfume."
The words hit like a thrown dagger, sharp and precise. Adrian froze, the mug halfway to his lips, the steam curling between them. His eyes flicked to hers, but Clara's expression was unyielding, all sharp angles and knowing.
"You're imagining things," he said finally, lowering the cup.
Clara folded her arms, her stance regal, as though she were presiding over a courtroom. "Her name?"
The question was simple, but her tone left no room for evasion. Adrian exhaled slowly, surrendering to inevitability. "Melissa."
Clara's lips pressed into a thin line, the kind that had ended more than one of his arguments as a child. "Melissa," she repeated, tasting the name as though it were both sweet and bitter. "Pretty name for trouble."
Adrian groaned and leaned back in his chair. "You haven't even met her."
"I don't need to." Clara's voice sharpened, a steel edge beneath velvet. "I saw her last night. Standing across the ballroom like a queen among pawns. She smiled too much, too perfectly. And no one trusts a smile like that."
He tried to dismiss her words, but they lingered. His mother's instincts had rarely failed her, and that knowledge gnawed at him in silence. He forced a laugh instead, hoping it would break the spell. "Mother, you've built an empire on suspicion. Not every person you meet is scheming in the shadows."
Clara stepped closer, resting her hands on the back of the chair across from him. Her eyes—gray, sharp, unblinking—studied him as though she could read the thoughts he didn't dare voice. "Adrian," she said softly, almost gently now, "you're clever. Clever enough to build something out of nothing, to command a room of men twice your age. But clever men forget sometimes. They think they can't be undone. And it is always a woman, with sharp teeth hidden behind painted lips, who proves them wrong."
Her words landed with more weight than he wanted to admit. They carried not just suspicion but memory—echoes of a past Adrian rarely allowed himself to revisit. His father's mistakes. His mother's survival. The silent war she had waged for years in gilded halls where smiles meant betrayal and alliances were bought with charm. Clara was not merely protective; she was scarred by history.
Adrian set his coffee aside and pushed his chair back, the scrape of wood against tile sharp in the quiet room. "Not every woman is out to destroy me," he said flatly, but the words felt weaker than he intended.
Clara's expression softened, only slightly, like a crack in a wall. "Maybe not," she conceded. "But some are. And those are the ones who smile as if they already know how the story ends."
Adrian shook his head, unwilling to let her warning dig deeper. He collected his jacket and slipped it on with precise movements, reclaiming his armor of control. "You worry too much," he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek in a gesture both affectionate and dismissive.
Clara didn't stop him, but her eyes followed him as he left the room, heavy with something unsaid.
And though Adrian rolled his eyes the moment he was out of sight, Clara's words lingered, following him like a
shadow—long, silent, and impossible to outrun.