Crystabella's POV
The morning sunlight crept through the tall windows of my childhood bedroom, brushing against the antique furnishings and polished floor like an unwanted visitor. I lay awake, staring at the high ceiling that had watched over me through the years of silent obedience, carefully cultivated manners, and emotional restraint.
Sleep had never come. Not after what happened last night.
My engagement ring was still on my nightstand, back in the city, miles away, and yet, the weight of it lingered on my finger like a ghost I couldn't shake. Romano hadn't called again, but I knew that silence wouldn't last. Eventually, questions would rise. Explanations would be demanded. And I wasn't sure if I was ready to answer any of them.
A soft knock on the door drew my attention.
Before I could speak, it opened slightly, and a familiar figure stepped inside: my mother.
She looked elegant as ever, draped in a pale blue silk robe, her dark hair swept into a loose chignon. Age had barely touched her. The same woman who had graced the front pages of magazines beside my father decades ago now stood with quiet authority at the edge of my world.
"May I?" she asked softly.
I nodded, sitting up. "Of course."
She stepped in and gently closed the door behind her, her eyes scanning the room like she was revisiting a memory. Then she crossed the space and sat beside me on the edge of the bed.
"You look tired," she said.
I gave a faint smile. "So do you."
For a moment, we just sat there. The silence between us wasn't new. It was a practiced one. But something about it felt different now. Less like avoidance. More like anticipation.
"I heard your father spoke to you last night," she finally said.
"That's one way to put it."
She gave a small sigh, folding her hands in her lap. "He's under a great deal of pressure."
"And I'm not?"
Her eyes flicked to mine. "I didn't say that. I know this life has asked too much of you. More than it should have. I see it now."
I studied her carefully. This wasn't the mother I remembered from my childhood, the one who enforced the rules with quiet nods and absent smiles. This version of her seemed more grounded. More human.
"Then why didn't you say something before?" I asked.
"I tried, Crystabella," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "But I was raised for this world too. Groomed to endure it. To support, not to question. I thought I was protecting you by making you strong enough to survive it."
My chest tightened. "You don't protect someone by making them numb."
"No," she murmured. "You don't."
We sat in silence again.
She reached out and took my hand. Hers was warm, trembling just slightly. "You're not a child anymore, and I can't make your choices for you. But I need you to be honest with yourself. Is Romano what you want?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge.
My throat felt dry. "He was… once. Or maybe I thought he was."
"And Leo?"
I looked away, my fingers curling into the blanket. "He's complicated."
"He always was," she said. "Even as a boy."
That caught me off guard. "You knew?"
"I knew he watched you like you were the only light in a dark world. I saw it. We all did. But you never looked at him. You only ever looked at Romano."
I nodded slowly. "Because Romano was safe. Predictable. He didn't make me feel… confused."
"And Leo does?"
"Leo makes me feel like the truth matters."
She gave a faint smile. "Then maybe it's time you stop running from it."
The door creaked open again, and Harris appeared, clearing his throat politely. "Your father requests your presence in the dining room, Miss Brooklyn."
I stiffened. "Of course he does."
My mother rose first and looked down at me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "Whatever happens today, don't let them steal your voice."
I followed her down the familiar staircase, every step echoing like a warning. The mansion was quiet in a way that felt orchestrated, like the calm before a storm.
My father sat at the head of the long dining table, dressed in another tailored suit. He didn't look up when I entered. The butler poured fresh coffee into his cup. A second place was set across from him, pristine and untouched.
I took my seat slowly.
He didn't speak until the room emptied of servants.
"Where is the ring?" he asked without looking at me.
My fingers curled around the edge of the chair. "In the city. On my nightstand."
His jaw tensed. "Do you have any idea what you've jeopardized by leaving it behind?"
"I didn't lose it," I replied evenly. "I left it. There's a difference."
He frowned. "Romano's family has already called. There are whispers. Concerns."
"Let them whisper," I said. "I won't marry someone out of obligation."
"You're not just anyone, Crystabella," he said sharply. "You're a Brooklyn."
"And not a person?"
His jaw clenched. "You're emotional. You've let yourself be influenced by the wrong people."
"You mean Leo?"
"Exactly."
I leaned forward, staring him down. "Leo is not the one breaking me apart. It's this. This performance. This scripted life. I can't live in it anymore."
He said nothing for a moment, just watched me.
Then he stood, walked to the window, and folded his hands behind his back.
"You were the one person I thought would never stray," he said quietly.
I stood too, anger rising in my chest. "I'm not straying. I'm choosing. There's a difference."
He turned to face me, and for the first time in a long while, I saw something flicker in his expression. Not rage, not disappointment, but something closer to recognition. Or maybe regret.
"You sound like your mother," he said.
"She finally started sounding like herself."
He said nothing.
I took a deep breath. "I'm going back to the city. I have a life there. A real one."
"And Romano?"
"I'll handle him. In my own way."
Without waiting for permission, I turned and walked out of the dining room, my pulse thundering in my ears.
My mother was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
Her expression was unreadable, but she held out my coat.
"You didn't say what he wanted," she said softly.
"He wanted me to be quiet."
"And were you?"
I met her eyes. "Not today."
She smiled, a quiet pride in her gaze. "Then maybe there's hope for us yet."
Outside, the car was already waiting.
And this time, when I climbed in, I didn't look back at the house.
Not because I was running.
But because I finally knew I didn't belong in places that only wanted a version of me they could control.
This time, I was going home.
To figure out who I really was.
Before the storm arrived.