The message came on a Tuesday.
One minute, Aria was standing in the hallway, phone in hand, flipping through photos from a product shoot.
The next, she froze.
A blinking red notification.
1 New Voicemail.
Unknown number.
She almost deleted it.
But something — instinct or curiosity or maybe dread — made her tap play.
And then her mother's voice filled the room.
"Aria… it's me. I know it's been years. I don't expect anything. But… I heard about you and Leon Castellan. And I just— I needed to hear your voice again. I'm staying in the city for a few days. If… if you want to talk, call me. I miss you."
Aria sat down slowly, as if the floor might tilt.
She hadn't heard that voice in nearly a decade.
Not since the night she left home at nineteen with a suitcase and a bitter promise never to come back.
Not since the last fight — the one where her mother told her she'd never be more than a pretty face without discipline.
Without obedience.
Without submission.
Her mother had wanted her to marry safe.
To behave.
To bend.
Aria had chosen herself instead.
And then silence.
For ten years.
Leon found her in the library, sitting cross-legged on the floor, phone in her lap.
She didn't look up when he walked in.
Didn't speak until he sat beside her.
Then: "She called."
He didn't ask who.
He already knew.
Instead, he reached for her hand.
"Do you want to talk to her?"
"I don't know."
"You don't have to decide tonight."
"She said she missed me."
Leon was quiet for a moment.
Then murmured, "Did she say she was sorry?"
"No."
"Then she's not calling for you. She's calling for herself."
They didn't speak of it again that night.
But Aria didn't sleep.
She lay awake beside Leon, staring at the ceiling, listening to his steady breathing.
So much of her life had been built in reaction to the woman who raised her.
She had rebelled by walking away.
By taking control.
By never asking permission again.
But now that voice was back.
Older.
Weaker.
Familiar in a way that made her ache.
The next day, Aria met Delilah at a boutique launch.
They were supposed to talk clothes and PR strategy.
Instead, Aria sat across from her friend with a coffee she hadn't touched and said, "She called."
Delilah blinked.
Then set her cup down.
"Are we talking about her?"
Aria nodded.
Delilah exhaled. "What does Leon think?"
"He said I don't owe her anything."
"You don't."
"But part of me still wants to know if she's changed."
Delilah leaned forward. "The part of you that still wants a mother?"
Aria didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
That evening, Leon came home early.
He found Aria on the balcony, arms wrapped around herself, phone in hand.
He didn't interrupt.
Just stood quietly beside her.
After a minute, she said, "I saved her contact under 'Maybe.'"
Leon looked at her.
She gave a small, brittle laugh. "Because I don't know what she is. Or what I want her to be."
"You don't have to forgive her to move on."
"I know."
"But if you need to see her to understand, I'll go with you."
Aria turned.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time in hours, she felt steady again.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Always."
She didn't call her mother that night.
But she didn't delete the voicemail either.
It stayed there, nestled between marketing reminders and fashion agency check-ins.
Not a demand.
Not a decision.
Just a ghost in her inbox — waiting.