Chapter 242

[ 1,082 words ]

Katia’s POV

I smelled coffee before I heard anything else.

I came downstairs in one of the dresses from the wardrobe Julian had stocked. It was a simple navy wrap dress that fit perfectly, because of course it did, because Julian Windsor had apparently memorized my measurements at some point and decided that was a normal thing to do. My hair was down. My feet were in the sandals I had found on the lower shelf. I felt human again for the first time since yesterday morning when everything had gone sideways on a Brooklyn rooftop.

I turned the corner into the kitchen.

Martha was standing at the counter.

Not Delia. Martha. In Julian’s kitchen at nine in the morning, wearing her good coat, holding a mug that she had clearly helped herself to, smiling at me with the smile she deployed when she had planned something and was pleased with how it was landing.

I stopped in the doorway.

I scanned her for exactly two seconds, the coat, the smile, the mug—and understood immediately what had happened. Delia had called her. Of course she had. Delia had watched Julian walk me out of that dining room last night and had picked up the phone the moment the door closed.

I walked to the coffee machine.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” Martha said warmly. Too warmly. The warmth of a woman who had arrived with an agenda and was going to ease into it. “Katia, is it appropriate for you to be waking up in your sister’s house p>

I poured my coffee.

I turned around.

I looked at my mother.

“Are you in a position to ask me what is appropriate and what is not?” I said.

Martha blinked. Just once. Then she recovered.

“You know, Katia,” she said, her voice shifting to the concerned register—the one that sounded like care and was actually control, “you have been spending a great deal of time with Julian, and it is disturbing p>

“Do you know what is disturbing?” I said. “You. Questioning me about my business partner p>

“I am not questioning you about your business partner,” Martha said. “I am questioning you about the fact that you spent the night in your sister’s house while your sister was there. That is not a business arrangement, Katia. That is something else entirely p>

“You know what,” I said, “I am going to stop you right there.” I set my mug down. “You called me last week and apologized for the magazine article. You invited me to a family dinner. You said you were sorry.” I looked at her. “Was any of that real, or was it all just a way to get me in the same room as Christopher p>

Martha opened her mouth.

“Do not answer that,” I said. “We both know the answer p>

“Katia p>

“You know what has to stop, Martha?” I said. “Your constant nagging. Where I sleep and where I do not sleep is not your concern. It stopped being your concern the day you threw me out of your house pregnant and alone at twenty years old.” I picked up my mug again. “You do not get to show up in someone else’s kitchen and question my movements p>

“I am your mother,” Martha said. Her voice had an edge now. The edge that appeared when the warmth had run out.

“You are,” I agreed. “And I have chosen to have a relationship with you despite everything. That is a choice I make every day. Do not make me reconsider it p>

Martha set her mug down on the counter.

“I am tired of your nonsense, Katia,” she said. “Delia was right. You are sleeping with her husband. That is what is happening here, and I am not going to stand in this kitchen and pretend otherwise p>

I looked at her.

“Husband,” I said.

“Yes,” Martha said. “Julian Windsor. Your sister’s husband. The man whose house you are standing in right now, wearing his clothes p>

“These are my clothes,” I said.

“—at nine in the morning after spending the night p>

“Are you sure,” I said slowly, “that your precious daughter has told you the whole truth about her marriage p>

Martha stared at me.

“Because from where I am standing,” I said, “you are here ranting like a dog in heat with no facts. You have been fed a version of this situation by someone who has a very clear interest in controlling what you know and what you do not know.” I tilted my head. “Has Delia ever actually explained to you the terms of her marriage with Julian? Has she sat down and told you exactly what their marriage looks like? What it has always looked like p>

Martha’s jaw was tight. “I don’t know what you are implying p>

“I am not implying anything,” I said. “I am telling you to ask your daughter. Before you come into someone else’s kitchen at nine in the morning and start throwing accusations around with no facts, ask your daughter who her husband actually is. Ask her what he told her on the day they got together. Ask her why, in all the months she has been in this house, she has never once p>

I stopped myself.

I was getting close to a line I was not going to cross. Not here. Not to Martha. That was not my truth to tell, and I was not going to tell it.

I breathed.

“Ask your daughter,” I said again, quieter. “And stop disturbing me. I have business to discuss p>

“Katia p>

“Martha.” My voice was final. The voice I used in boardrooms when the meeting was over and someone had not realized it yet. “I love you because you are my mother. But you are standing in a space that does not belong to you, asking questions about a situation you do not fully understand, on behalf of a daughter who has not given you the full picture.” I looked at her directly. “Go home. Call Delia. Ask her. And when she tells you—whatever version she tells you—remember that there is always another side p>

I picked up my coffee.

I walked to the door.

“Oh and Martha,” I said without turning around. “Whose fiancé was Julian in the first place p>

The kitchen went completely silent.

I did not wait for her to find an answer.

I walked out and went upstairs and closed the door behind me and stood in the quiet of Julian’s corridor and breathed slowly.

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