POV Eric
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Floris looked down at her outfit like she’d forgotten she was dressed. Black leather pants that could’ve been painted on and some tragic sweater that looked like it had survived a nuclear winter.
“Clothes?” she said, all innocent confusion.
“That’s debatable.” I ran a hand through my hair. “What was going through Sia’s mind when she helped you pick this disaster?”
“Sia wasn’t helping me. I don’t know where she is.”
Of course. Where the hell was Sia when I needed her the most?
“You have a horrible sense of style,” I said bluntly.
“Thanks. Really boosts the confidence.”
“Get back to your room. I’ll pick out your outfit.”
She crossed her arms. “This is very much family dinner appropriate.”
“Yeah, when your family’s part of a biker gang or runs a meth lab.” I was already heading toward her closet. “My mother will take one look at those pants and assume I’m dating a dominatrix.”
“Are you not?”
I paused. “Behave yourself, Middleton.”
The thing about Helena Brighton is she judges everything through the lens of social climbing and appearances. Leather pants scream rebellion, working class, someone who doesn’t understand the delicate art of looking expensive without trying.
She’d spent my entire childhood drilling into me the importance of “appropriate presentation”—which mostly meant making sure nothing I did reflected poorly on her carefully curated image.
I grabbed a knee-length floral dress from her closet. Conservative, feminine, the kind of thing that screamed “I read poetry and volunteer at animal shelters.”
“Wear this. Hair in a messy bun. I’ll wait in the car.”
“Eric—”
“Five minutes, Floris. Don’t test me today.”
***
She slid into the passenger seat looking like a completely different person.
The dress softened her edges, made her look younger, more vulnerable. Exactly what my mother would expect from someone in her position.
“Where’s dinner?” she asked, buckling her seatbelt.
“Haarlem.”
“Who’s going to be there?”
“Just my mother.”
“What’s she like?”
I kept my eyes on the road. “Her name is Helena Brighton. That’s all you need to know.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
Truth was, I didn’t know how to explain Helena without sounding like a case study in psychological warfare.
How do you tell someone that your mother treats love like a commodity and affection like a negotiation tactic? That she’d spent decades perfecting the art of emotional manipulation until it became her default mode of communication?
“Is she going to like me?” Floris asked.
“She’s going to dissect you like a lab specimen. Whether she likes what she finds depends on how well you play the game.”
“What game?”
“The one where you pretend to be harmless while she decides if you’re worth keeping around.”
The house in Haarlem was classic Helena—understated elegance that screamed money without being vulgar about it.
Georgian architecture, perfectly manicured gardens, the kind of place that appeared in lifestyle magazines under headlines like “Timeless Dutch Sophistication.”
All paid for by Brighton Systems, naturally. My mother had expensive taste and zero income of her own.
“Wow,” Floris breathed, staring up at the facade. “This is where you grew up?”
“Part of the time.” When I wasn’t being shipped off to boarding schools or summer camps designed to build character and emotional distance.
Helena answered the door herself—never a good sign. She liked having staff around as buffers, witnesses to her performance as the gracious hostess.
“Eric.” She offered her cheek for the obligatory kiss. “You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
“Of course.” Her gaze shifted to Floris with surgical precision. “And you must be the famous Floris.”
“Just Floris. Nothing famous about me.”
Wrong answer. Helena’s smile went razor-sharp.
“How refreshing. Modesty is so rare these days.” She gestured us inside. “Come in. Dinner’s ready.”
The dining room was pure theater—crystal chandelier, antique furniture, place settings that probably cost more than most people’s cars. Helena had positioned herself at the head of the table like a queen holding court.
“So, Floris,” she said, cutting her salmon with surgical precision. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to tell. I work for your son.”
“Yes, I gathered that. In what capacity?”
Floris glanced at me. I kept my expression neutral.
“Executive assistant.”
“How interesting.” Helena’s tone suggested it was anything but. “Eric’s had so many assistants over the years. They never seem to… last.”
“Mother—”
“What? It’s simply an observation.” She turned back to Floris. “You seem different from the others, though. More… spirited.”
“Is that a problem?”
Helena’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Not a problem, exactly. Just unexpected. Eric usually prefers his employees more… compliant.”
The judgment in her voice was crystal clear. Floris was failing some invisible test, not performing her role with the appropriate deference.
“I’m not great at compliance,” Floris said cheerfully. “It’s a character flaw.”
“Indeed.” Helena looked at me like I’d brought home a feral cat. “Eric, darling, are you quite sure you know what you’re doing?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge. This was classic Helena—undermining my judgment while maintaining plausible deniability.
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Because this girl seems rather… untamed. She speaks to you like an equal, questions your authority. Frankly, I’m concerned about your management style.”
Heat flared in my chest. “My management style isn’t your concern.”
“Everything you do reflects on this family, Eric. If you can’t control your own employees—”
“Let’s go.” I stood abruptly, throwing my napkin on the table. “I don’t want dinner anymore.”
“Eric—”
“No. We’re leaving.” I looked at Floris. “Now.”
She stood without argument, which was probably the smartest thing she’d done all evening.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Helena called after us. “Running away when things get difficult. Your father had the same weakness.”
I stopped dead. Turned back.
“Don’t.”
“The same inability to maintain control. The same emotional volatility.” Her smile was poisonous. “Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all.”