Christine's POV
I sat at the dining table, staring at the plates that were still full. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, sausages — all of it untouched. Out of everything, she picked an apple. An apple. I didn't even know why I felt so bothered, but it sat in my chest like a weight.
Beckett would have something to say about it later. He always did. Christine, you've spoiled her. Christine, you don't set boundaries. I could already hear him, voice low and sharp, like a gavel that had already made its judgment.
Miss Sarah moved quietly around me, clearing cups into a tray. "Go ahead and clear the table," I said. She nodded, her face calm like always.
The silver cutlery clinked softly, echoing through the dining room. The big clock on the wall ticked past nine. Ariana had gone upstairs without another word. No apology. No explanation. Nothing.
The phone rang from the sitting room — the white Panasonic cordless phone Beckett had imported from Japan, the one meant for official calls only. Miss Sarah looked at me, waiting for a sign.
"I'll get it," I told her.
I walked into the sitting room and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Vale," a crisp voice said. "This is Janet, secretary to the Quinn Group. I'm calling to confirm if you and your family will still be available for the dinner meeting with Mr. Andrew and his son tonight."
I paused for a moment. My brain had been too full of Ariana to think about schedules. "Oh, yes," I said quickly. "We'll be there at the given time."
"Perfect, ma'am. We'll expect you by seven."
"Thank you, Janet. Have a good day."
The call ended with a soft click. I placed the phone back on the table and stared at the glass top for a moment. The Quinns. Beckett had mentioned them — a new partnership deal, something about merging assets. Something important. It was always important.
I sighed and made my way upstairs. Ariana's door was halfway shut. I knocked twice. "Ariana?"
Silence.
I pushed it open. "Ugh, Your room is always scattered."
She was lying flat on her bed, one arm over her eyes, her long brown hair spilling across the pillow. The curtains were half drawn, light slicing across the room in stripes.
"You should open your windows," I said, walking inside. "It looks like a cave in here."
"Mum, it's fine," her voice muffled. "I'll clean later."
"No, you'll clean now," I said, picking up a cardigan from the floor. "You're not a guest in this house."
"Mum—"
"Don't start. Every day you say later, and later never comes."
She sat up slowly, legs crossed, expression unreadable. She began folding a few clothes, not saying anything.
I went to the dressing table and ran a finger across it. "Dust," I said. "How do you even breathe in here?"
"Mum, can you stop checking everything?"
"I'm your mother. It's my job to check everything."
She rolled her eyes, but quietly kept folding. I looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked… tired. Not sick, not sad, just worn out in a way I didn't understand.
"You haven't been yourself lately," I said. "You sleep too much, you hardly eat. What's going on?"
"I'm just tired, Mum."
"Tired from what?"
"Nothing. Just tired."
I folded my arms. "You're pale. Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine."
"You said that this morning."
She didn't answer. Just placed another folded shirt on the bed.
I exhaled quietly. "Anyway, We have dinner tonight with the Quinns. I want you ready by six-thirty."
She blinked. "Dinner?"
"Yes. Your father already confirmed it."
"Mum, please," she said, groaning softly. "I don't feel like going anywhere tonight."
"You're going, Ariana."
"Why? It's just another boring business dinner. Dad talks numbers, people laugh at fake jokes, and everyone pretends to like each other. It's exhausting."
"Because it's important to your father," I said flatly. "And because you're part of this family, whether you find it boring or not."
She flopped back on the bed. "Oh my God, Mom."
"Don't take that tone with me."
She lifted her head, smirking a little. "You say that every time."
"Because you do it every time."
That made her laugh quietly. Just a small sound, but I was grateful for it.
"Wear one of the dresses I ordered from Haute Couture last week," I said. "The black one would look lovely on you."
"Mum—"
"No arguments."
She sighed dramatically. "Fine."
"Good. Miss Sarah will help you with your hair if you want."
"I can do it myself."
"Alright. Just be ready on time. You know how your father gets when people are late."
She gave a little shrug. "Yeah. I know."
I moved toward the window and opened the curtains wider. "Let the light in, at least. You'll feel better."
"Mum, I said I'll do it later."
"I don't believe you," I said, smiling faintly.
"Then stop asking," she replied, but there was no bite in her tone.
I glanced at her one last time. She'd already reached for her phone, half-listening now. I could see the small flicker of a smile when the screen lit up, like whoever she was texting mattered more than anything else in the room.
"Six-thirty," I reminded her. "Don't make me come back up here."
"I heard you."
I nodded and turned for the door. "And open those windows before the air in here starts smelling like perfume and dust."
"Yes, Mum."
I closed the door behind me and stood in the hallway for a moment, hand resting on the railing. The house was quiet again. It always was after conversations with her — a strange quiet that made me feel like I'd missed something.
I went back downstairs, picked up the phone again, and dialed Beckett's office number from memory.
It rang twice before his secretary answered. "Mr. Vale's office."
"It's Christine," I said. "Please remind your boss that we have dinner with the Quinns tonight at seven."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And tell him not to be late this time."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll let him know."
"Thank you."
I hung up, looked back at the clean table, and picked up my coffee cup. It had gone cold.
Another day in this house. Another dinner to prepare for. Another chance to pretend everything was fine.