The car rolled quietly through the long private drive, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires. Damon leaned back against the leather seat, watching the iron gates slide open with practiced ease. The estate emerged gradually, not dramatic, not showy, just expansive in the way that spoke of inheritance, patience, and money that didn't need to announce itself.
This was home.
The mansion sat calmly behind trimmed hedges and tall trees, stone walls aged just enough to feel permanent. It wasn't the kind of place that tried to impress strangers. It didn't have to. Damon stepped out, slinging his bag over his shoulder, the cool English air brushing against his face. The scent of rain lingered faintly on the grass.
The front door opened before he reached it.
"Damon."
Victoria stood there, composed as ever. She wore a simple cream blouse tucked into tailored trousers, a thin gold watch resting against her wrist. No makeup beyond what was necessary. No excess. Everything about her presence was deliberate: the kind of woman who ran boardrooms, not households. Her hair was neatly pulled back, her posture effortless.
"You're back earlier than I expected," she said, her tone calm, measured but warm in the way she reserved only for him.
"Yeah," Damon replied, returning the brief embrace she offered. "Thought I'd come before it got busy."
She stepped aside, letting him in.
The house was quiet in that unmistakable way wealth allowed. Soft lighting. Polished floors. Art pieces chosen with intention, not trend. A faint scent of coffee and fresh linen hung in the air. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticked steadily: not loud, just present.
Damon set his bag down near the staircase and glanced around. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything felt heavier.
"You look tired," Victoria observed, not unkindly.
"I'm fine," he answered automatically.
She nodded, accepting the lie without pressing.
That was their way. She believed in space, in self-management, in strength that didn't require hovering. It was how she loved.
Damon moved toward the wide windows overlooking the back lawn. Beyond the glass, the grounds stretched endlessly; trimmed hedges, stone paths, a stillness that felt almost rehearsed. It was beautiful. Controlled. Perfect.
And somehow… empty.
His phone buzzed quietly in his hand. A message from Lewis.
Back to the castle already? Don't disappear on us, man.
Damon didn't reply. His gaze drifted instead, uninvited, to Thalma. The thought came softly, without warning. Her voice. The way she listened. The parts of her that never needed polishing.
He leaned against the window frame, exhaling slowly.
Victoria's footsteps echoed faintly behind him as she moved through the room, already halfway back into her world of calls, meetings, and responsibilities. He admired her : always had.
But admiration didn't erase the distance. It explained it.
For all the security, the space, the silence, Damon felt the familiar ache settle in his chest.
He was home.
And yet, something in him remained elsewhere.
Some absences followed you, no matter how high the gates or how quiet the rooms.
***
Dinner was served without ceremony.
The dining room was softly lit, the kind of lighting that didn't try to impress but made everything look deliberate. A long oak table stretched between them, polished to a gentle sheen. The meal itself was simple: grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, warm bread set neatly to the side. Nothing extravagant. Just precise. Thought through.
Damon took his seat across from his mother.
Victoria folded her napkin calmly, her movements efficient, almost automatic. She had already changed out of her work blouse into a soft cashmere sweater, pale grey, sleeves pushed slightly up her wrists. She looked less like a CEO now and more like a woman who had learned to compartmentalize her life neatly.
They ate in silence for a few moments.
It wasn't awkward. Silence had always been allowed between them.
"How long are you staying?" she asked eventually, her voice even.
"Not sure," Damon replied, cutting into the salmon. "A few weeks, I guess. Until the semester break ends."
Victoria nodded once. "Good. You need rest."
Damon almost smiled at that. Rest, to her, didn't mean sleep. It meant distance. Space. Resetting.
"You've been working too hard," she added, not looking at him. "I can see it."
He shrugged lightly. "School's been… busy."
She hummed, unconvinced but unwilling to push. Victoria had never been the type to interrogate emotions. She trusted that if something truly mattered, Damon would say it. If he didn't, she assumed it was under control.
And most of the time, she was wrong.
"Your absence was noticed," she continued calmly. "At the last board dinner."
Damon glanced up. "You brought me up?"
"Someone else did," she corrected. "They asked if you'd be joining us for the summer events."
"And?"
"I said you were finding your way."
Her eyes finally met his.
There was no judgment there. Just the truth.
Damon swallowed slowly. "I don't think those events are really… my thing."
"They never were," she said. "But they teach you how to stand in rooms that expect something from you."
There it was.
Expectation.
He leaned back slightly in his chair. "You don't have to worry about me taking over anything."
"I know," Victoria replied. "That's not what this is about."
She paused, choosing her next words with care.
"I don't need you to be me," she said quietly. "I need you to be steady."
The word lingered between them.
Steady.
Damon nodded, though something in his chest tightened. He had spent years trying to be that:controlled, unaffected, composed. Just like her.
But steadiness didn't stop certain names from surfacing uninvited.
Didn't stop memories from slipping through at night.
Victoria resumed eating, giving him the gift of space again. After a moment, she spoke, softer now.
"You're quieter than usual."
"I'm just tired."
Another lie. Another accepted one.
She set her fork down gently. "You know, Damon… you don't have to bring everything home with you."
He looked at her then,really looked. At the fine lines around her eyes, earned through years of pressure and decision-making. At the strength she carried so effortlessly, and the emotional distance that came with it.
"I don't know how to leave some things behind," he admitted before he could stop himself.
Victoria studied him carefully, as if reassessing something she thought she already understood.
"That," she said after a pause, "is something you'll have to learn on your own."
Not cold. Not cruel. Just honest.
Dinner ended shortly after that.
They rose from the table together, the unspoken weight of the conversation settling quietly into the room. Victoria excused herself for a late call, her world never fully stopping. Damon lingered behind, staring at the untouched glass of water beside his plate.
The house felt too large again.
As he headed upstairs, his phone buzzed softly in his pocket.
A notification.
He stopped mid-step.
He didn't check it immediately.
Some part of him already knew whatever it was, it would pull him away from the fragile calm he had just stepped into.
And tonight, he wasn't sure he was ready for that.
***
Thalma sits on the small stool in front of the mirror, her back straight but relaxed. Her reflection stares back at her, quiet and thoughtful. She barely recognizes how calm she looks.
Her mother stands behind her, fingers gentle as they run through Thalma's hair. The brush glides slowly, untangling knots with patience, as though there is no rush anywhere in the world.
"You remember I told you about the house party this weekend, right?" her mother says casually, her voice warm.
Thalma nods. "Yes, Mom."
"I've invited a few friends. They're excited to finally meet you again." She smiles at their reflection. "And they're bringing their children too. The house will be full."
The brush pauses for a moment, then resumes.
"We'll go shopping tomorrow," her mother adds. "You'll need a few nice things to wear. Nothing too much, just something that makes you feel good."
Thalma's lips curve slightly. "Okay."
Her mother leans closer, placing a soft kiss on her head before finishing the last stroke of the brush. "You deserve to feel beautiful, Thalma. Don't forget that."
She sets the brush down and walks out, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and a warmth that lingers longer than her footsteps.
Thalma remains seated for a moment, staring at herself in the mirror. Her chest tightens, not from pain, but from something unfamiliar: Care.
Later that night, when the house is quiet and the lights are low, Thalma reaches for her diary. She opens it slowly, fingers resting on the page like it might speak back to her.
"Dear Diary,
For the first time in a long while, I feel… seen.
Not in the way people notice you in passing, or compliment you without really knowing you but in the way someone looks at you and understands the pauses between your words.
That's how it feels being here with Mom. She listens without trying to fix me. She doesn't rush my thoughts. She lets me exist exactly as I am.
I didn't know how much I needed that.
The house feels alive in a gentle way. Not loud, not demanding. My little sister's laughter fills the rooms, and Mom's voice follows me everywhere: asking if I've eaten, if I'm warm enough, if I slept well. Simple questions. Questions that carry care without conditions.
I catch myself smiling without effort.
And that scares me.
Because happiness, for me, has always felt borrowed. Temporary. Like something I'm allowed to touch, but never hold for too long. I keep waiting for the moment it slips through my fingers, the way it always does.
I watch Mom move around the house with ease, like she belongs fully to this life she's built. I love her for that. I truly do. But sometimes I wonder where I fit inside it. Am I a visitor? A chapter that returns occasionally, then leaves again?
She looks at me with pride now. With relief. Like she's been waiting to see who I've become. I wish she knew how much of me is still unfinished.
I feel heard here. I feel held. And yet, something in my chest remains restless like a question I don't yet know how to ask.
Maybe healing doesn't happen all at once.
Maybe it comes in quiet moments, like this.
Or maybe I'm just afraid that once I leave, I'll forget how this felt.
For now, I'll stay in the softness.
For now, I'll let myself breathe."
To be continued...