Back at home, Eliza barely managed to sit still.
The car ride with Charles Whitmore had been surreal—silent but charged. He sat beside her, a billionaire in a tailored coat, his jaw tight with unsaid words.
The apartment building looked painfully ordinary compared to the mansion. Eliza led the way up the stairs, her hands shaking.
Inside, the familiar scent of cinnamon and chamomile hit her like a wave. Her mother sat by the window, mending a worn cardigan, her silver hair pulled into a neat bun.
“Mom,” Eliza began, voice cracking. “Tell me the truth. Were you married to him?”
Rebecca looked up. Her needle slipped through trembling fingers. Her gaze drifted past Eliza to Charles, standing in the doorway.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” she whispered.
