Chapter 103

[ 1,028 words ]

Katia’s POV

My mother called at seven fifteen on a Saturday morning.

I was already up; I was always already up, had been since Aiden was born, my body having decided at some point in his first year that sleeping past six was a luxury it could no longer afford and had not reversed that decision since. I was on my second coffee, halfway through the Dubai logistics brief for the fourth time, and Aiden was still asleep down the hall with the profound commitment of a child who had no Saturday morning obligations and intended to honour that fully.

Mama calling at seven fifteen on a Saturday was not normal. Mother called on weekdays, during reasonable hours, when she had something specific to deploy. Seven fifteen on a Saturday meant something had happened last night that she had been sitting with since and had decided could not wait until Monday.

I answered.

“Katia.” Her voice had the quality it got when she was managing something — warm on the surface, with the specific tension of someone holding several things simultaneously underneath. “I hope I’m not calling too early p>

“You are,” I said. “What is it, Mother p>

She didn’t answer immediately, I could hear the sound of her collecting herself, which with Mama was a very brief process. “I had a visitor last night p>

“Delia,” I said.

She took a moment. “Yes p>

I set the logistics brief aside and picked up my coffee. “And p>

“She’s unhappy, Katia.” Mama’s voice shifted slightly — less the manager, briefly more the mother. “She came to me at midnight. She’s — she’s not well in that marriage. Julian is — “

“Mother p>

“He’s cold to her. Dismissive. She says he p>

“Mother.” I said it more firmly this time. Not unkindly. But clearly. “I understand Delia is unhappy. I’m sorry for that. But I’m not sure what you expect me to do about it p>

“I expect you to be careful,” Mama said.

I set my coffee down. “Excuse me p>

“Delia is telling me things, Katia. About the way Julian looks at you. About the attention he pays you. About the fact that every time you are in the same room something — ” she paused, choosing the word, “— shifts.” Her voice was careful. “I am not accusing you of anything. I am asking you to be careful. For your sister’s sake p>

The kitchen was very quiet. Outside, the morning was grey and still, the city not yet fully awake. I looked at my coffee cup. At the logistics brief on the table. At the framed photograph of Aiden on the counter — three years old, at the park, laughing at something off-camera with his whole face.

I thought about what I was going to say.

I thought about Julian in the boardroom and Julian at the Calloway Club and Julian’s knee almost touching mine and his laugh, the real one, unguarded. I thought about Gail saying, ’Has anyone ever told you that Aiden looks like—’ and stopping herself. I thought about a contract amendment clause that was personal and barely disguised and a phone call that ended with Dubai. Five weeks.

I thought about all of it, and I decided what I was going to say, which was the truth, which was what I always said to my mother when I wanted her to stop talking.

“Julian Windsor is my business partner,” I said. “I work with him. I am professional with him. Whatever Delia has told you she has seen — she has seen a business relationship. That is all there is.” I picked up my coffee. “I am going to Dubai today for the IG expansion launch and the WEG partnership events. I am going because it is my job. Not for any other reason p>

“Katia p>

“Mother. I have a child to get ready for his Saturday activities and a logistics brief to finish and a company to run.” I kept my voice even. “If Delia is unhappy in her marriage, that is between her and Julian. It has nothing to do with me p>

“You’ll be in the same city p>

“We are in the same city right now. We work together. That is not going to change because Delia is uncomfortable.” I let it sink. “I am sorry she is unhappy. I genuinely am. But I will not manage my professional life around my sister’s marriage.”I wiated for this statement to sink too, then continue. “And I’d ask you not to call me at seven fifteen on a Saturday to suggest that I should p>

She didn’t answer immediately, then Mother said, in a different voice — quieter, stripped of the management layer: “She cried, Katia. In my kitchen. At midnight p>

I closed my eyes for a second.

I thought about Delia at midnight in Martha’s kitchen. I thought about my sister — the girl who had been so excited to marry the richest man in the world, who had walked into that arrangement with her eyes bright and her expectations enormous and had found, on the other side of it, something that had made her cry in our mother’s kitchen at midnight. I did not know what had passed between her and Julian. I did not need to know. The shape of it was enough. And I felt the specific complicated weight of a situation that was not my fault and was not entirely not my fault either.

“I know, but it has nothing to do with me,” I said. Quietly.

“She’s my daughter,” Mama said. “Whatever else I’ve done wrong — and I know I’ve done wrong, Katia, I know — she’s my daughter p>

“I know that too, but then, what am I?” I said.

A silence that was different from the ones before it. Softer. The silence of two people who had a great deal of history between them and were choosing, for a moment, not to stand in all of it.

She ignored my question; she only called because her princess is hurt.

“Be careful in Dubai,” Martha said finally. Not the strategic version of careful. The mother version.

“I’m always careful,” I said.

I hung up.

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