Chapter 19
I froze the moment I saw her moving across the ballroom. My mother. Slow, poised, deliberate. Every step she took seemed to bend the air around her, commanding attention without effort, radiating authority and beauty like some unstoppable force of nature.
And she was walking straight toward us. Straight toward me and the prince.
My chest tightened. Panic prickled through my throat, through my limbs like electricity. Why now? Why here? What could she possibly be doing approaching us?
She's not going to… she wouldn't…
I shook the thought away. Surely, she couldn't try to snatch him here, in front of all these people. Not tonight. Not in this room full of strangers. And yet, my body tensed as I clutched the prince's hand, feeling the warmth of it and the steady calm in him, wishing desperately that it could protect me from the storm I could already sense in her.
Her eyes met mine briefly as she came closer. The briefest flash of recognition—or maybe amusement—curled at her lips. And then, she smiled.
"Darling," she said softly, almost soothingly, her voice smooth and deliberate, the kind of voice that could charm an entire room without raising itself above a whisper, "why haven't you been picking up your phone?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. She wasn't really asking me to answer, was she? No, her question wasn't meant to elicit a reply. It was a statement, a subtle assertion of control. My fingers itched to respond, to tell her I hadn't wanted to speak to her, that I needed space—but I remained frozen, caught in the gravity of her presence.
Then her gaze shifted. Slowly, deliberately, she turned toward the prince.
"And you must be…" she said, extending her hand, effortlessly charming, controlled. "The gentleman I've heard so much about. I'm Nora. It's a pleasure."
The prince inclined his head slightly, polite and composed. "The pleasure is mine."
I swallowed hard. My mother's smile—warm, inviting, subtly magnetic—hit me like a blow. She continued, eyes twinkling, as if he were the only person in the room. "And might I say… very handsome. Quite the presence on the dance floor."
My chest tightened, hot with irritation. Of course she would charm him. Of course she would do this.
She laughed softly, a sound that seemed too perfect, too effortless. "You're so lucky, darling," she said to me, brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder with a delicate flick, "that he's willing to dance with you tonight."
I wanted to yell, to shove her, to grab the prince and flee. But instead, I felt my stomach twist in frustration and humiliation. My fingers curled into fists.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. So I did the only thing I could: I excused myself.
"I'll be at the bar," I said curtly, my voice sharper than I intended. The prince's hand paused for a moment as if to stop me, to reach after me—but I waved him off, unwilling to let him intervene. "I'm fine. I'll be back."
I stormed toward the bar, every step heavy with irritation. My mother's laughter, the tilt of her head, the way the prince's eyes flickered ever so slightly toward her—it all burned in me like fire. And yet, as I reached the bar, I realized something that made my stomach twist even further.
The prince wasn't fully paying attention to her. Not entirely. His eyes flickered toward me now and then, subtle, polite, almost apologetic. And that… that made it worse. It didn't calm me. It only added fuel to the fire of my humiliation and anger.
I ordered a drink but didn't take a sip immediately. My fingers wrapped around the glass, cold against my skin, as I stood frozen, watching them across the room. My mother continued her conversation with the prince, gesturing lightly, laughing softly, leaning in as if the world belonged entirely to them.
I didn't move. I didn't drink. I wasn't here to drink. I was here to wait—wait for the moment to pass, for her to finish, for some fragment of control to return to me.
And yet… my mind refused to stay in the present. Watching her, seeing the subtle attention she commanded from the prince, the easy, natural charm she radiated—it all came flooding back. Memories I had tried to bury resurfaced, sharp, bitter, unavoidable.
Daniel
Daniel. Sixteen. My first crush, the first boy I had thought noticed me above all others. He had waited for me after class, complimented me, laughed at my jokes, made me feel seen. Until my mother appeared that evening at a small gathering.
She didn't speak to him aggressively, didn't flirt overtly. She just… existed. And somehow, by the end of the night, he was leaning forward, laughing at her jokes, hanging on her every word.
I remember the look in his eyes when he glanced at me—it was as if I had suddenly become invisible, irrelevant. Did she even notice? Did she even intend it? I never knew.
I had cried that night in my bedroom, furious at the unfairness, yet oddly helpless in the face of her effortless charm.
Marcus
Then Marcus. Older, confident, assured. He had admired my fire, my determination, the way I threw myself into every ambition. I thought I had his attention. I thought it was mine.
Until my mother smiled at him one evening at a restaurant where we had gone for a casual dinner. Nothing extravagant, nothing forced. Just a smile. But that smile—effortless, magnetic—drew him in.
By the time dessert arrived, he was leaning across the table, caught entirely by her. I sat there, fuming and humiliated, realizing that every compliment, every word, every attentive gesture he had given me had been quietly transferred to her.
I remembered her laughter, the tilt of her head, the subtle brush of her hand along her glass as he hung on every word. I remembered the way I had tried to laugh along, to maintain composure, but my insides had burned with jealousy.
Alan
Then Alan. Eighteen. Thoughtful, patient, attentive, endlessly fascinated by my quirks, my dreams, my fire. I had let myself believe he was mine—just for me.
My mother had arrived one evening at the gallery where I had brought him to see an exhibition. Alan had been leaning over to explain a painting to me when she appeared. By the end of the evening, he was leaning forward, captivated entirely by her discussion, her interest, her presence.
Nothing she did seemed intentional. Yet, by the time she left, I had felt invisible, irrelevant, unimportant.
Jonathan
And Jonathan. Brief, fleeting, yet unforgettable in the way he had made me feel like the center of a world I had just begun to explore. My mother had simply smiled when she met him at a casual gathering. That smile had shifted his attention completely. It wasn't flattery. It wasn't words. It was her. Always her.
And now… she sat across the room from me, smiling at the prince, leaning just enough, speaking just enough, and my chest burned with the same familiar frustration.
Was it intentional? Was she trying to steal him? Or was it simply who she was?
I didn't know. And that uncertainty made the fire in my chest even hotter.
I took a slow sip of my drink, leaning against the polished bar. My eyes flicked toward the mother and the prince, though I tried to avoid looking. She laughed lightly, tilting her head, leaning in just enough to draw him into her orbit.
And yet… the prince's attention was not fully on her. His gaze occasionally flickered toward me, subtle, careful, full of consideration. Each time he did, my stomach twisted, and the sharp spike of hope that maybe he hadn't been entirely captivated by her, that maybe I still mattered, raced through me.
I leaned back in the chair, swirling my drink slowly, trying to anchor myself in something tangible. And yet, as I watched them, the memories continued to assault me, one after the other, each more vivid, more infuriating than the last.
I realized something terrifying: my mother's presence didn't just interrupt my evening—it unsettled the very air around me, disturbed the rhythm of everything I had been building tonight, and reminded me painfully that some forces were simply… uncontrollable.
But then, in the midst of frustration, a spark of defiance ignited.
Not tonight.
I would not—I would never again—allow her to walk into a room and steal the world from me. I would not let her charm, her presence, her effortless power, take from me what I wanted. Not a glance. Not a word. Not him.
The decision came like a jolt. It hit my chest, my arms, my legs, until I couldn't sit any longer.
I set my drink down with deliberate force, the glass ringing sharply against the counter. Heads nearby glanced up, a few startled by the sound, but I didn't care.
I stood, letting the heat of my determination replace the burn of jealousy and fear. I walked through the room with measured steps, my eyes fixed on my mother. Her conversation with the prince halted mid-sentence as she caught sight of me, and for the first time, I saw real surprise in her expression.
She's never seen me like this.
I didn't stop. I didn't hesitate. I didn't look at anyone else in the room. I reached the edge of the table where the prince had been momentarily set aside by my mother's conversation.
I extended my hand toward him. Not in hesitation. Not in shy invitation. In command.
"Come with me," I said, my voice steady, low, and unmistakably certain.
My mother blinked, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. The smile that had always been flawless faltered for the briefest instant. This was not the girl she knew. Not the one who would sit quietly, invisible in her shadow.
The prince looked at me, startled but calm, and without a word, took my hand.
We moved together through the space, leaving the murmurs and whispers behind. Some people noticed—some glanced, curious at the boldness—but the room was busy, and not everyone paid attention. That didn't matter. What mattered was the electricity in my chest, the pulse of defiance coursing through me, and the subtle shift in the room's energy as I finally refused to be invisible.
My mother's eyes followed us, sharp, assessing, but she didn't speak. She had never been challenged like this before. She hadn't expected it. And I—finally, finally—felt a quiet triumph, bitter and exhilarating all at once.
The prince squeezed my hand slightly as we moved past, giving a subtle nod, a silent acknowledgment of the strength that had just erupted in me. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I had made my statement.
And in that instant, I knew: the rules had changed.
Tonight, I would not let anyone—not even her—walk away with what was mine.