I walked over, my boots scuffing against the hardwood floor, my mind still half-stuck between the chaos of the White House and the warm, familiar chaos of home. The scent of Mom's cooking—something spicy, comforting—filled the air, but it clashed with the musky, lingering aroma of sex still clinging to my skin.
"How could I forget my mom…?" I started, my voice light, but there was a tremor beneath it—guilt, exhaustion, the weight of too many secrets.
I shoved my hands into my pockets, my fingers brushing against the fabric as I forced a smile. "It's just… Aunt Diana had some business…" I paused, my eyes flicking to the ceiling as if searching for the right words. "So she got busy, and I was… helping…"
The excuse sounded thin even to my own ears. Too vague. Too convenient. But Mom didn't push it—not yet. Instead, she crossed her arms, her eyebrows lifting as she studied me, her gaze sharp enough to cut through the bullshit.
