Thea woke on Indie's futon with her neck cramped at an angle that promised a headache later and the immediate certainty that she couldn't avoid her mother any longer, couldn't keep pretending through text messages that everything was fine when her entire life had collapsed in less than forty-eight hours.
The subway ride to Yonkers felt longer than usual, every stop another opportunity to turn around and retreat to the safety of Indie's apartment where she could hide from the disappointment she knew would be waiting in her mother's eyes, but she stayed on the train because running had never actually solved anything and she was tired of pretending it would start now.
Lillian Langford's house looked exactly the same as it always did, the small brick colonial with its neat lawn and the wreath on the door that had been there since Thanksgiving, and Thea stood on the sidewalk for a full minute before forcing herself up the walkway because this was somehow harder than finding Callum in bed with Sienna, harder than reading those texts from Dorian, harder than losing her job and her apartment in the same devastating week.
Her key still worked in the lock, which felt like a small mercy after yesterday's discovery that her corporate apartment had already been taken from her, and she pushed the door open to the smell of coffee and cinnamon rolls that meant her mother was stress baking again, something Lillian only did when she was worried or angry or both.
"Thea?" Her mother's voice came from the kitchen, surprised and wary in equal measure. "I thought you said you weren't coming for Christmas."
Thea walked through the familiar hallway with its family photos chronicling her childhood, past the living room where her father's favorite chair still sat in the corner like he might come back any moment to reclaim it, and found her mother standing at the kitchen counter with flour on her hands and that expression she got when she was trying very hard not to say I told you so.
"I lied," Thea said, which wasn't how she'd planned to start this conversation but seemed like the only honest thing she could manage right now.
Lillian wiped her hands on a towel and studied her daughter with the kind of scrutiny only mothers could achieve, the kind that saw past makeup and careful posture straight through to the barely held together mess underneath.
"Sit down," Lillian said, and it wasn't a request.
Thea sat at the kitchen table where she'd done homework and eaten Sunday dinners and told her mother about getting into college, and she watched Lillian pour two cups of coffee and plate fresh cinnamon rolls with the same precise movements she'd used for twenty-eight years, and somehow that familiar routine made everything worse because it reminded Thea of when life had been simpler, when her biggest problems were algebra tests and whether Jason Miller would ask her to homecoming.
"So," Lillian said, settling into the chair across from her. "Are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to guess?"
The whole story spilled out then, everything Thea had been holding back through carefully worded text messages and deflections, about Callum and Sienna and the texts from Dorian and the firing scheduled for Monday and the apartment she'd already lost and the criminal charges being fabricated to destroy any chance she had of working again, and her mother listened without interrupting, her expression shifting from concern to fury to something that looked almost like relief.
"I knew there was something wrong with that boy," Lillian said when Thea finally stopped talking. "He had weak handshakes and he never looked me in the eye, those are always warning signs."
Thea almost laughed except nothing was actually funny, except maybe the fact that her mother's main takeaway from this disaster was Callum's inadequate handshake technique.
"I'm sorry," Thea heard herself say, even though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for exactly, just that she felt like she should apologize for something, for failing or for being naive or for not living up to whatever expectations had been silently accumulating over three years of steady employment and serious boyfriend and the promise of grandchildren that would now never materialize.
"For what?" Lillian's voice was sharp. "For getting cheated on? For having a vindictive boss? For being good enough at your job that small men felt threatened by you?"
The tears came without permission, hot and messy and completely at odds with the composed professional person Thea had been pretending to be for so long, and Lillian was around the table before Thea could even think about stopping them, pulling her into the kind of hug that smelled like vanilla and laundry detergent and home.
"You listen to me," Lillian said into Thea's hair. "I nag you about marriage and grandchildren because I'm lonely and scared, not because I think you need a man to be complete. Your father would be furious with me for making you feel like you had to settle for someone like Callum just to check boxes on some imaginary timeline."
Thea cried harder, because her father had been dead for twelve years and she still missed him every single day, still wished she could call him and ask what to do when life stopped making sense.
"Stay here for Christmas," Lillian said, pulling back to look at her daughter properly. "Stay as long as you need. This is your home, Thea. It's always been your home."
Thea wanted to say yes, wanted to collapse into the safety of her childhood bedroom and let her mother take care of her like she was sixteen again, but tomorrow night was Westlight and the mysterious stranger who claimed to be buying Sterling Property Group, and she needed to be in the city for that meeting even if everything in her wanted to hide in Yonkers and pretend the world outside this kitchen didn't exist.
"I can't," Thea said. "Not yet. There's something I have to do tomorrow night."
Lillian's eyes narrowed with the suspicious understanding of someone who'd raised a daughter through adolescence and knew exactly what I have to do tomorrow night usually meant.
"What kind of something?"
Thea explained about the texts and the unknown number and the meeting at Westlight, watching her mother's expression cycle through alarm and anger and finally grudging acceptance.
"This is dangerous," Lillian said flatly. "Meeting a stranger who's been stalking you."
"I know," Thea admitted. "But it might also be the only way to fight back against what Dorian's planning. And I'm tired of running, Mom. I'm tired of letting powerful men decide what happens to my life."
Lillian studied her for a long moment before sighing in defeat.
"Your father would have said the same thing," she said quietly. "He never could walk away from a fight either, even when he should have."
They sat in silence while the December sun slanted through the kitchen window and the cinnamon rolls cooled on their plates, and Thea thought about tomorrow night at Westlight, about the gray suit and the stranger who knew too much and the choice she'd have to make between safety and the possibility of something that looked like justice.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and Thea pulled it out with hands that were steadier than they'd been yesterday, saw the unknown number, felt her pulse quicken.
UNKNOWN: Tomorrow night. Eight PM. Don't be late. And Thea? Wear something that makes you feel powerful. Where we're going after Westlight requires confidence.
Thea stared at the message, her brain snagging on those last words, because where we're going after suggested this wasn't just a meeting but the beginning of something bigger, something that would require more than just showing up and listening.
She typed back with fingers that trembled slightly: *Where are we going after?*
The response came immediately.
UNKNOWN: To take back everything they stole from you.