The moment Josh and I step into the house, warm light spills over us. Golden. Soft. Almost staged. The kind of lighting used in luxury perfume ads where everyone looks flawless and emotionally unavailable.
And then I hear it.
"Ash?"
Her voice.
My mother's voice.
It hits like cold air against bare skin. Sharp first, then numb.
I was seeing my mother after three years. She had never been the affectionate type, probably too practical, too ambitious for that. Still, she was my mother. And standing there in front of her after so long stirred a swarm of emotions in my chest, tangled and restless, with nowhere to go.
She moves toward us through the crowd with practiced grace, her long emerald dress catching the light. Everything about her is deliberate. Hair styled perfectly. Makeup flawless. A smile polished to a shine.
Too polished.
Not warm. Not familiar. Just presentable.
"Ash. You came."
Her arms open. I hesitate long enough that Josh nudges me forward, gentle and quiet. I let her hug me because I do not know what else to do.
It is a careful embrace. Her arms circle my shoulders, but her body keeps its distance. Like she is afraid of wrinkling something delicate. Or unfamiliar.
Her perfume is floral and expensive. Nothing like the scent I remember from childhood.
I do not hug back at first. When I finally do, it feels cautious, like touching something that used to belong to me and no longer does.
"It's been so long," she says, pulling away. She smooths my jacket as if I need adjusting. "You've grown. You look very mature."
Three years apart, and that was what she noticed. It felt like a cold shower on the emotions rising in my chest.
I want to laugh. Or cry. Instead I nod. "Yeah. It has."
Silence settles between us. Thin. Awkward. Fragile.
She clears her throat, the same way she used to before work presentations.
"Well," she says brightly, "there's someone I want you to meet."
She turns, gesturing toward a man animatedly speaking to two CEOs like he is explaining the future of civilization.
Richard Moreland.
He approaches with an easy confidence, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey the color of burnt gold. His suit fits perfectly. His smile does too.
"So you're Ashton," he says, offering his hand. His grip is firm, deliberate. Evaluating. "Claire has told me a lot about you."
I doubt that. Probably just the fact that she has a son called Ashton, whom she doesn't need in her life anymore.
"Nice to meet you," I replied. Grandma raised me better than to be rude to strangers, especially wealthy ones.
Mom's smile widens, proud in a way that feels rehearsed.
"Richard is the CEO of Moreland Tech Enterprises," she says. "He's doing incredible work."
Richard chuckles, modest only in theory. "We're expanding rapidly. Claire mentioned you study literature."
Josh makes a sound behind me. I elbow him lightly.
"Creative writing," I say.
"Ah," Richard replies, as if the conversation has resolved itself. "Well. We are having a launch event here. I thought it would be good for you to meet some people. Connections matter."
His smile is sharp beneath the charm.
Mom watches me closely, hopeful. Not for me. For the picture she is building.
I understand then.
This is why I was invited.
Not because she missed me. Not because she wanted me back. But because I could be placed neatly into her new life.
I swallow and smile politely. "Sure."
Josh shifts beside me. A quiet question in his posture. I shake my head just slightly.
"Wonderful," Mom says, relieved. "There's food in the lounge. Sushi, desserts. Make yourselves comfortable."
Comfortable.
Right.
She walks away with Richard, laughing at something he murmurs to her. They look perfect together, framed by warm light and admiration.
The house feels colder once they are gone.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The lounge is designed to feel intimate. Velvet sofas. Low lighting. Jazz humming softly. Instead it feels suffocating. Every surface gleams. Every conversation smells like money and certainty.
I took a glass of lemonade. I want my thoughts clear.
Richard appears beside me, resting a hand on the back of the sofa, leaning in just enough to claim space.
"Ash," he says warmly. Too warmly. "I wanted to talk."
Of course you did.
"Sure," I reply.
He studies me like a prospectus. "Your mother says you're creative."
There is something unfinished in the word.
Mom stands beside him, champagne in hand, smiling as if creativity is a charming flaw.
Richard swirls his whiskey. "Creativity is nice. But it is not a plan. Structure matters. Stability. That is what builds a future."
I nod, noncommittal.
"So what do you plan to do after graduation?" he asks. "Literature does not offer many options."
"I want to write," I say. "Books. Maybe scripts. Fiction."
He laughs. Loud enough to turn heads.
"Writing," he repeats, amused. "That is not a career. Not anymore."
He taps my shoulder lightly. Casual. Dismissive. "You need direction."
Claire says nothing.
I swallow my irritation. "I have direction."
"Then let me help," Richard says smoothly. "Join my company. We will find something suitable. Stable. Respectable."
"No," I say, calm and firm. "That is not for me. I mean, the corporate world."
His smile tightens. Just slightly.
Mom's does too.
"It's a good opportunity," she says softly. "You should consider it."
"I have," I reply. "And I am choosing something else."
Richard waves a hand. "You are young. You will understand later."
"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe I already do."
He studies me for a moment, then pats my shoulder again, already bored. "Think about it."
He walks away.
Claire lingers.
"You didn't have to be difficult," she says quietly.
I look at her. Really look.
She fits perfectly here. In this house. In this life. Among people who speak her language.
"I wasn't being difficult," I said. "I was being honest."
She exhales, adjusting her smile. "Let's just enjoy the evening."
She rejoins the party.
I remain seated.
Around me, laughter rises. Glasses clink. Music hums on.
The party continues without me, bright and effortless.
And standing there, surrounded by warmth that does not belong to me, I understand something clearly.
Seeing my mother again didn't bring her closer like I thought.
It only confirmed how far away she has gone.