A King For Christmas

#4 - Just A Performance

Remi

"You look different," my mother beamed, her hands cupping my cheeks, sparkling eyes searching mine. "...like something beautiful is growing right here." Her hands dropped to my heart.

A tightness formed almost instantly, even though she was the one person whose touch I welcomed there.

Because nothing beautiful was blooming inside me. Only regret. A sharp, stinging ache.

I waved the thought away and forced a smile. "What does that even mean, Mama?" I took her hands in mine and kissed them.

Her tired smile widened as she looked up at me from the bed she hadn't left in days. She was getting worse, slipping away faster, but I refused to dwell on it. I would get through this visit without shedding any of the thousand tears threatening to fall.

"I brought you something." I reached into my bag, a flicker of excitement warming my chest at the thought of my gift.

"I couldn't help myself when I saw it."

I placed my all time favourite bed time story in her hands.

Her face lit up, and it was worth every step I'd taken outside the mansion to find something, anything that might bring colour to her pale cheeks.

Was it sad that she was the only reason I came out for?

Yes and no.

Yes, because I had no friends. Or rather I'd chosen not to. I'd never wanted to gush about my marriage simply because my friend expected me to, or endure the looks of pity when the truth of my loveless union surfaced.

And no, because my mother was the only true thing in my life, and I wanted to spend every moment I could with her.

"Aww, I haven't seen one of these since I lost your copy," she said, smiling wide. Then her gaze lifted past me. "And you, Lincoln... you don't know how happy it makes me that you finally took time to visit me."

I kept from staring at my husband. Barely.

I'd been shocked when he joined me in the car, and even more shocked when he followed me into the care facility. Stepping into her room, I'd almost tripped when he threaded his fingers through mine.

He'd been here the entire time. The longest I'd ever visited my mother.

"My Remi has told me just how busy her loving husband is," she continued, smiling fondly. "So believe me when I say I appreciate you making time."

I felt his eyes on me, but couldn't bring myself to look at him. What did he expect, that I would tell my mother the stack truth about our marriage?

"I should have been here long before today," Lincoln said quietly. "I hope you forgive me."

I barely kept my jaw from dropping when Lincoln said that. Filled with so much warmth, like he actually meant every word.

"No need for apologies." My mother waved him off before smiling again. "And by the way, the scarf is lovely. It brings out my eyes, don't you think, Sweetheart?" She asked, turning to me.

I could only stare.

He'd bought her gifts?

"Remi, dear, are you alright?" My mother frowned, snapping me out of it.

"I — I'm fine mother," I said quickly. "And yes, it's beautiful." And it was. I gave the winter scarf a gentle tug, wondering if he'd chosen it himself even if the idea was ludicrous.

"So," she said brightly, eyes dancing between us, "how was Christmas? Did anything magical happen?"

I nearly chocked.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, the blush impossible to stop.

Lincoln, however, sat rigid beside me, his fists clenched. I'd known it. I'd felt it. But seeing how much he regretted sleeping with me, it did things to me. Terrible, ugly things that twisted in my stomach, reminding me of what a fool I'd been to hope that maybe Harper had been wrong.

"We had dinner," I murmured.

My mother's gaze snapped to Lincoln, silently asking for confirmation.

"At a friend's house," he added smoothly, reaching for my hand so naturally I could have melted—if this wasn't all just a performance.

Then his thumb began to trace slow, gentle circles on my skin.

I looked at him without meaning to. I meant to glare, to remind myself that this was nothing, but when our eyes locked, the same softness shining back at me, my breath hitched.

"It was... lovely," he said, his eyes holding mine, as though trying to drive some point home.

Something fluttered in my stomach, traitorous and unwanted.

I looked away quickly before I embarrassed myself further.

My mother's smile was wide when I turned back to her, and now that I thought about it, despite her deteriorating health, she looked happy—truly happy.

Her next words broke my heart.

"I'm so glad you found each other," she sighed contentedly. "Love is such a beautiful thing, dear Remi."

Then her eyes fluttered shut.

Panic seized me, sharp and immediate, until a strong hand tightened around mine, grounding me just enough to notice the steady rise and fall of her chest.

My own chest rose and fell with a rhythm I didn't like.

"Breathe, Remi," Lincoln whispered into my ear, his breath fanning my neck. "She's alright," he added when my panic refused to ease.

Except she wasn't alright—and he didn't need to pretend anymore.

I snatched my hand back, turning to tell him to stop, to quit the act when my mother's voice filled the room, gentle, tired, devastating.

"Read to me, baby."

"O—of course, mama," I croaked, reaching for the book that had slipped from her hand and landed on the bed.

I took a deep breath and flipped the page. It wasn't enough to keep the tremble out of my voice. Neither could it keep the first tears from falling even as I read the first line.

"Once upon a time, in a place where the nights were never too dark, there lived a girl who believed in gentle miracles."

I paused, heart aching, realising deep inside still lived a girl, one who wanted so hard to believe in gentle miracles. But they weren't real, were they?

I shut the book— or tried to— before Lincoln's hand stopped me. This time I glared at him, but he simply took it from me, his voice filling the room when he continued from right where I'd stopped.

"She believed that even the smallest kindness could change the shape of a broken world," he read, and I could only stare, something tight and unfamiliar forming in my chest.

He read with the same gentleness he'd shown me on Christmas eve, his voice low, careful, almost reverent.

Then it was over.

He closed the book, gave my mother's sleeping form a brief look, and straightened.

"We're leaving," he said.

Just like that, the moment shattered, and my heart sank with it.