[Rae’s POV]
Beatrice's summons arrives via text at 7 AM like a precision-guided missile of obligation. "Tea. The estate. Two o'clock. Non-negotiable."
Because nothing says "relaxing afternoon" like mandatory grandmother interrogation.
The estate's sitting room hasn't changed since I was twelve—same suffocating elegance, same portraits of ancestors judging my life choices from ornate frames. Beatrice presides over the tea service like a monarch who's recently discovered her kingdom is running low on patience.
"The board met yesterday," she announces, pouring Earl Grey with the gravity of someone discussing nuclear codes. "They're restless, Aurelia. Shareholders want clarity. Direction. Commitment."
"Florisight's quarterly numbers are up fifteen percent. The Nexus contract alone—"
"Not about the business, darling." She sets down the teapot with a decisive clink. "About you. This relationship with Miles that seems to be perpetually stalling, or this merger with Dorian that you keep treating like a dental appointment you'd rather reschedule."
I accept my teacup, buying time with a sip that scalds my tongue. "Things are progressing. These situations take time to develop naturally."
Beatrice's laugh could frost windows in July. "Naturally. Yes. Because nothing about your situation screams 'organic romance.' You've been dating Miles for months now, supposedly discussing marriage, and yet I've seen more physical chemistry between my orchids and their fertilizer."
"That's not—"
"Meanwhile, Dorian's family is growing impatient. His mother called me twice this week asking about timelines. Timelines, Aurelia. Like you're a construction project running behind schedule." She stirs her tea with surgical precision.
"The board needs to see commitment. Either to the merger or to this mysterious boyfriend who looks at you like you hung the moon but treats you in public like a colleague he's trying not to accidentally touch."
My stomach performs an acrobatic routine that would medal at the Olympics. "Miles and I are private people. We don't need to perform for—"
"Are you in love with him?"
The question lands like a grenade thrown into a tea party. My teacup freezes halfway to my lips, the porcelain suddenly weighing approximately seven thousand pounds.
Beatrice watches me with the patience of someone who's spent seventy-two years learning to read people like financial statements. The silence stretches between us, filling the room with everything I'm not saying. My pulse hammers against my throat, loud enough that she must hear it across the antique coffee table.
"That hesitation," she observes quietly, "is answer enough."
"It's complicated." The words sound pathetic even as they leave my mouth. "We have history. We work together. There are boundaries we established because—"
"Because you're terrified." Beatrice sets down her cup with finality. "I suspected as much. The question is why you're wasting everyone's time with Dorian if your heart has already made its choice."
"My heart hasn't chosen anything. That's the problem." I'm babbling now, words tumbling out faster than wisdom can filter them.
"Miles is my best friend. My business partner. If I ruin that—if we try something real and it explodes—I lose everything. The friendship, the partnership, the one stable thing I've managed to build in this entire disaster of a life."
"So instead you'll choose the safe option. The merger candidate who requires nothing of you emotionally. The arrangement you can walk away from without bleeding." Beatrice's voice drops, sharp as a surgical blade. "How very Elisabeth of you."
The comparison hits like a physical blow. My mother's name in this room, spoken with such calculated precision—I feel the blood drain from my face. The teacup trembles in my grip.
"I'm nothing like her." My voice comes out strangled, defensive. "She abandoned us. She disappeared in the middle of the night and never looked back."
"She was also afraid of commitment. Also kept one foot out the door." Beatrice's gaze doesn't waver. "Also convinced herself that staying safe was the same as staying smart. That emotional distance was self-preservation rather than cowardice."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Her eyebrow lifts with devastating precision. "From where I'm sitting, you're doing exactly what Elisabeth did. Choosing the option that doesn't require vulnerability. The path that lets you maintain control. Dorian is safe because you don't actually want him—which means he can't actually hurt you."
My hands are shaking. The teacup rattles against its saucer, and I set it down before I spill evidence of my emotional state all over her antique tablecloth.
"Miles is different," I manage. "What I feel for him—it's too big. Too much. If I let myself fall completely and he doesn't catch me, I won't survive it."
"So you'll choose survival over living. Safety over love." Beatrice sighs, and for a moment she looks every one of her seventy-two years. "Your mother made the same calculation. She decided that distance was protection, that leaving was easier than staying and risking disappointment.”
She swings her hand like a magician performing a very disturbing magic trick. “And look where that got her—alone in London, watching her daughter grow up through secondhand reports, convincing herself she made the right choice."
The words settle into my chest like poison, seeping into cracks I didn't know existed. I want to argue, to defend myself, to explain that my situation is completely different. But every rebuttal dies before reaching my lips because somewhere, in the parts of my brain I usually keep locked, I know she's right.
"I'm not running," I whisper. "I'm being practical."
"You're being a coward, darling. There's a difference." Beatrice rises, signaling the end of our conversation with the efficiency of someone who's scheduled grief into fifteen-minute increments.
"The board meets in three weeks. I need your decision by then—genuine commitment to one path or the other. No more hedging. No more performing relationships you don't feel."
I leave the estate with Beatrice's words echoing in my skull like a jury verdict I can't appeal. The comparison to my mother clings to my skin, uncomfortable and undeniable. Every justification I've constructed over the past weeks suddenly looks different—not self-preservation but fear wearing a rational costume.
The drive home blurs through a haze of spiraling thoughts. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, Beatrice's voice on infinite replay: "How very Elisabeth of you."
My phone buzzes at a red light. Dorian's name illuminates the screen.
"Dinner tonight? Mommy Dearest's in a mood and I need an excuse to escape."
I stare at the message for three red lights and two near-collisions. The smart thing would be to decline. To go home, process Beatrice's surgical observations, figure out what I actually want instead of what's safe.
Instead, my fingers type: "Yes. Your place. 8pm."
Because wanting Miles feels too much like becoming my mother—choosing emotion over logic, risking everything on feelings that might not be reciprocated. And I'm not ready to face what that means.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I tell myself I'm choosing Dorian tonight because he's the practical option. The safe harbor in my storm of complicated feelings. The choice that doesn't require me to crack open my chest and hand someone the power to destroy me.
But somewhere deeper, in the parts of myself I'm too scared to examine, I know the truth.
I'm running. Just like she did.
And I have no idea how to stop.