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About halfway down the hallway, I almost bumped into Mom, who was gliding past in one of her effortlessly chic outfits, waving her hands animatedly at a group of maids and servants trailing behind her, all clutching clipboards and fabric samples.
She was deep into redecoration mode, pointing out crown molding that seemed to offend her aesthetic and chatting about whether to go with eggshell or ivory for the guest suites.
"And I'm thinking we switch out the drapes in the east wing for something lighter—maybe a soft sage to let in more natural—" She paused mid-sentence when she noticed me, her perfectly manicured hand frozen in the air. Her piercing blue eyes narrowed, scanning my face as if she had a built-in radar for emotional crises.
"Noah, sweetheart," she said, stepping away from the group and moving towards me with that concerned tilt of her head she always used when she sensed something was off. "You look absolutely miserable. What's going on?"
