Eleanor Kane arrives at precisely seven o'clock.
Of course she does. Mia has learned in the past twenty-four hours that the Kane family operates on precision, control, and the careful maintenance of appearances. Lateness would suggest chaos. Eleanor Kane does not do chaos.
"She's here," Alexander says unnecessarily, watching the elevator display from the living room.
Mia smooths her dress for the hundredth time. Navy blue, knee-length, conservative but elegant. Sophie helped her pick it out this morning via frantic video call. Her hair is styled, makeup perfect, wedding ring prominently displayed.
She looks like someone who belongs in a penthouse.
She feels like an imposter about to be exposed.
"Breathe," Alexander says, suddenly beside her. "She's just a person."
"She's your mother. The Eleanor Kane. I read about her—she sits on five charity boards, personally vets every Kane family investment, and once made a senator cry at a fundraiser."
"That senator deserved it. He was embezzling." Alexander's hand finds hers, squeezes. "But yes, she's intimidating. Don't let her smell fear."
"That's not helping."
"Would you prefer I lie?"
"Yes," Mia hisses. "Please lie to me right now."
The elevator dings. The doors open.
Eleanor Kane steps into the penthouse like she owns it—which, technically, she partially does. She's sixty-three but could pass for fifty, thanks to excellent genes, better skincare, and probably some very discreet work. Perfectly coiffed silver hair, a cream Chanel suit, pearls that probably cost more than Mia's childhood.
She looks at Mia the way someone might examine a potentially counterfeit painting.
"Mother," Alexander says, not moving from Mia's side. "Thank you for coming."
"As if I had a choice." Eleanor's voice is cultured, cold. "You get married without telling anyone, to a woman we've never met, and expect me to simply accept this?"
"Yes." Alexander's tone brooks no argument. "Mia is my wife. That makes her family. I expect her to be treated as such."
Eleanor's eyes—the same gray as Alexander's but infinitely colder—fix on Mia. "So you're the girl from the articles. The artist."
"Yes, ma'am." Mia's voice comes out steadier than she feels. "It's nice to meet you."
"Is it?" Eleanor glides into the living room, sits on the couch like it's a throne. "Alexander, leave us. I'd like to speak with your wife alone."
"Mother—"
"It's okay," Mia cuts in, even though it's absolutely not okay. But this is happening eventually. Might as well be now. "We should talk."
Alexander looks torn. "I'll be in my office. Yell if you need me."
He leaves. Mia is alone with Eleanor Kane.
The silence stretches. Eleanor studies Mia with the focus of a scientist examining bacteria.
"Sit," Eleanor finally says. "You're hovering."
Mia sits. Keeps her spine straight, hands folded in her lap. Channels every etiquette lesson she never received.
"You're pregnant," Eleanor states. Not a question.
"Yes."
"How far along?"
"Thirteen weeks."
"And the child is Alexander's?"
The insinuation stings. "Yes. I can provide a paternity test if—"
"That won't be necessary. Alexander believes you, which means he's verified it himself." Eleanor's fingers tap her knee—the only sign of agitation. "What I want to know is what you want from this marriage."
"I want to raise my child with their father."
"That's what you tell people. I'm asking what you actually want." Eleanor leans forward. "Money? Status? Access to the Kane fortune? Because make no mistake, girl, I've seen dozens of women try to trap my son. You're just the first to succeed."
Anger flares in Mia's chest. "I didn't trap anyone. Alexander proposed to me. He wanted this marriage."
"Because you're pregnant. Do you really think he'd have chosen you otherwise?" Eleanor's smile is sharp. "Look at you. No family, no connections, no education worth mentioning. You're a waitress who paints on the side. What could you possibly offer someone like Alexander?"
Each word is a calculated cut. Mia's nails dig into her palms.
"I offer him honesty," she says quietly. "I don't want his money. I signed a contract that gives me an exit in two years with a settlement. If I was a gold digger, I'd be planning to stay forever, wouldn't I?"
That gives Eleanor pause. "You signed a contract?"
"Full terms and conditions. Financial provisions, custody arrangements, exit clauses. Alexander insisted." Mia meets Eleanor's cold gaze. "I agreed because I wanted security for my child. Not because I'm trying to steal the Kane fortune."
"How progressive." Eleanor's tone drips sarcasm. "A contract marriage. How very like Alexander to turn even this into a business arrangement." She stands, walks to the window. "Let me tell you what's going to happen, Mia. You're going to be scrutinized. Every outfit, every word, every social appearance will be judged. The media will tear you apart. Society will never fully accept you. And when the two years are up, you'll take your settlement and disappear, and Alexander will find someone appropriate."
"Appropriate meaning someone you choose."
"Someone who understands our world. Who can navigate it without embarrassing the family." Eleanor turns, eyes hard. "You'll never be one of us. You can wear expensive clothes and live in this penthouse and play house with my son, but you'll always be the foster child who got lucky."
The words hit like physical blows. Every insecurity, every fear, vocalized by this woman who's decided Mia isn't worth basic decency.
"You're right," Mia says, standing. Her legs shake but she refuses to show it. "I'll never be one of you. I didn't grow up with money or connections or the certainty that I mattered. I grew up bouncing between homes, being told I wasn't wanted, watching families reject me over and over." Her voice strengthens. "But that taught me something you've clearly never learned—how to see people as people, not assets. Not investments or embarrassments or social climbing attempts."
Eleanor's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes.
"I love your son," Mia continues—and realizes as she says it that it might actually be true, or at least the beginning of truth. "Maybe not in the way romance novels describe. But I care about him. I see him. The person he is under all the CEO performance. And I'm going to raise our child to be kind and genuine and everything your husband apparently wasn't."
"Don't you dare speak about—"
"About what? Your abusive husband? The man who locked Alexander in his room for days? Who taught him that emotions are weakness and children are investments?" Mia steps closer. "Alexander told me. He told me everything. And if you think I'm going to let you treat him—or me, or our baby—the way that man treated you both, you're wrong."
The silence is deafening.
Eleanor's mask cracks. Just for a second, Mia sees pain, rage, something that looks like shame.
"Alexander told you about his father," Eleanor says quietly.
"Yes."
"He never tells anyone about his father."
"He told me."
Eleanor sits down slowly, suddenly looking her age. "James Kane was a monster. I stayed because I was young and stupid and thought I could change him. Then I stayed because leaving would mean admitting failure. Then I stayed because..." She trails off. "Because it was easier than being brave."
The admission shocks Mia into silence.
"I failed Alexander," Eleanor continues, voice hollow. "I let his father hurt him. I chose appearances over protecting my son. That's something I have to live with." Her eyes meet Mia's. "So when you stand there, pregnant and self-righteous, telling me you'll be better—I hope you're right. I hope you are everything I wasn't."
Mia sits back down. "Mrs. Kane—"
"Eleanor. If you're going to be my daughter-in-law, call me Eleanor." She straightens, rebuilding her armor. "I'm not apologizing for my concerns. You are an unknown variable in a carefully managed life. But if Alexander chose you—truly chose you—then perhaps there's something I'm not seeing."
"He chose me because I'm pregnant."
"Alexander doesn't do anything solely because he has to. If it were just about the baby, he'd have paid you off and arranged custody. He married you. That means something." Eleanor stands. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to attend the Winter Gala with Alexander next week. You'll be introduced to society as his wife. I'll ensure you're not completely eviscerated."
"Why would you help me?"
"Because you're carrying my grandchild. Because despite everything, you stood up to me, which is more than most people dare." Eleanor's smile is thin. "And because maybe—just maybe—you'll be good for my son. God knows he needs someone who isn't afraid of him."
The elevator dings. Alexander emerges from his office, timing suspiciously perfect.
"How long were you listening?" Eleanor asks dryly.
"Long enough." Alexander moves to Mia's side immediately. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Mia says, and mostly means it.
"We should discuss the gala," Eleanor says, back to business. "Mia will need a wardrobe consultation, media training, a proper introduction strategy—"
"No." Alexander's voice is firm. "No media training, no makeover, no strategy. Mia attends as herself. That's non-negotiable."
"Alexander, be reasonable—"
"I am being reasonable. She's my wife. She doesn't need to be packaged and presented like a product launch." His hand finds Mia's. "If society doesn't like her exactly as she is, that's their problem."
Eleanor looks between them. Something softens in her expression—regret, maybe, or recognition.
"You really care about her," she says quietly. "This isn't just about the baby."
"No," Alexander agrees. "It's not."
The admission makes Mia's heart skip.
Eleanor collects her purse. "Fine. No media training. But Mia, you'll need an appropriate dress. I'll have my stylist send options." She heads for the elevator, pauses. "Alexander? Your father would have hated her. That's how I know she's exactly what you need."
She leaves.
Mia and Alexander stand in the sudden silence.
"That went well," Alexander says eventually.
"Your mother called me a gold digger and then offered to help me pick a dress. I don't think I understand rich people."
"Join the club. I've been rich my whole life and I still don't understand them." He turns to her. "Are you really okay? She can be... harsh."
"She's hurt. And scared. And trying to protect you in her own dysfunctional way." Mia sinks onto the couch. "I get it. I don't like it, but I get it."
Alexander sits beside her. "You told her you love me."
Mia's breath catches. "You heard that part?"
"All of it. I was listening from the first word." His eyes search hers. "Did you mean it?"
"I... I don't know. Maybe. It's complicated." Mia looks at their joined hands. "We barely know each other. But when I'm with you, I feel less alone. And when I think about the future—our baby, this life we're building—I want you in it. Not because of the contract or the money. Because you're you."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"That's depressing."
"Welcome to my life." Alexander lifts their joined hands, kisses her knuckles. "For what it's worth—I want you in my future too. Contract or not."
They sit there, hands linked, two people pretending to be married discovering they might actually care about each other.
"What's this gala?" Mia asks eventually.
"Annual charity event. Five hundred of Manhattan's wealthiest, most judgmental people in one room. It's essentially a gladiator arena with better clothes."
"Sounds terrible."
"It absolutely is." Alexander's smile is rueful. "But you'll be there with me. That makes it almost bearable."
"Almost?"
"I'm a realist."
Mia laughs despite everything. "Fine. One gala. But if anyone makes me feel as small as your mother tried to, I'm leaving."
"Deal. And Mia?" Alexander's expression turns serious. "Thank you for standing up to her. No one ever does that. She needed to hear it."
"Someone had to tell her the truth."
"It's one of the things I—" He stops. "One of the things I appreciate about you. You don't soften reality just because it's uncomfortable."
Mia notices what he almost said. One of the things I love about you.
Almost.
They're getting closer. To something real. Something that matters.
One uncomfortable gala at a time.