My mother enters my office with the careful poise of a woman who has worn control like an accessory her entire life. Her hair is perfectly swept back, her suit immaculate, her expression arranged into a sadness she believes looks natural. To anyone else it might. To me, it looks rehearsed. Practiced. A costume she puts on whenever the Thornton reputation requires a softer angle.
She closes the door with a soft click and glides toward the chairs in front of my desk. She does not sit. She stands there with her hands clasped, her chin lifted with quiet judgment, and her gaze sweeping over the room as if she is checking for dust. Or weakness.
“Damian,” she says, voice smooth and heavy with motherly disappointment. “I cannot ignore it any longer. You should have stopped all of this before it
