I stared at my mother standing in the dim light, her figure barely visible in the shadows. My heart hammered against my ribs as memories flooded back—memories of sitting by the window for hours, waiting for her to return, of crying myself to sleep night after night. And now here she was, after all these years, claiming she had something important to tell me.
"Isabella," Alaric's voice was low in my ear, his arm firmly around my waist. "You don't need to speak with her if you don't wish to."
I leaned into his strength, grateful for his protective presence. "What do you want, Mariella?" I asked, my voice sounding stronger than I felt.
My mother stepped forward, her features coming into sharper focus. The years had been kind to her—a few lines around her eyes, but still beautiful in that effortless way I remembered. "I need to speak with you privately. There are things you should know."
