Chapter 6
878 Words
Three weeks later, Mary was drowning in fabric swatches, CAD renderings, and client notes scrawled in shorthand only she could decipher. Her desk had become a battlefield of coffee rings and sticky notes. The children had taken to leaving her “care packages”—Patricia’s included a neatly folded handkerchief and a note that read *“Hydrate or diedrate,”* while John’s contained a half-eaten cookie and a crayon drawing of her with angel wings.
She hadn’t slept more than five hours a night since accepting the position. Every spare moment was spent studying architectural journals, watching design documentaries, or practicing sketching under the dim glow of her reading lamp. She refused to be the token “mom assistant” who got by on pity. She would earn her place.
Tonight was no different. At 11:47 p.m., she was hunched over her laptop, fine-tuning a lighting plan for a penthouse renovation, when a small voice cut through the hum of the radiator.
“Mommy.”
Mary startled, nearly knocking over her mug. Patricia stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing her pink dinosaur pajamas and an expression that could only be described as *disappointed adult energy*.
“It’s almost midnight,” Patricia said, stepping inside. “You promised you’d sleep early.”
“I just need to finish this one section,” Mary said weakly.
“No,” Patricia said, marching over and closing the laptop with surprising strength. “You’re tired. Your eyes are red. And you forgot to eat dinner again.”
Mary opened her mouth to protest—but then stopped. Because Patricia was right. And worse, she saw the fear beneath her daughter’s sternness: the fear of losing her, again.
“I’m sorry,” Mary whispered, pulling her close. Patricia stiffened at first, then melted into the hug, burying her face in Mary’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” Patricia murmured. “We’re here.”
Tears spilled over. Mary held her tighter. In that moment, the exhaustion, the pressure, the gnawing anxiety about James—it all receded, replaced by a fierce, grounding love.
“I know,” she said. “And I won’t.”
The next morning, refreshed and resolved, Mary arrived at the studio early. She’d packed lunches for the kids, set out their clothes, and even managed to braid Patricia’s hair without tangling it. She felt… capable.
Robert found her in the prop room, organizing vintage lamps by era. “You look better,” he observed, leaning against the doorframe.
“I feel better,” she said, smiling. “Thanks to a very strict four-year-old.”
He laughed. “Good. Because I have news.” He handed her a thick envelope. “The Everhart Charity Gala. Next Saturday. You’re coming with me.”
Mary’s stomach dropped. “The gala? But—I’m just an assistant.”
“You’re the creative force behind our next three episodes,” Robert corrected gently. “And more importantly, you deserve to be seen. These people—they fund the kinds of homes we build on the show. They hire designers. This isn’t just a party, Mary. It’s your launchpad.”
She hesitated. The last gala had ended with James cornering her like prey. What if he was there again?
But then she remembered Patricia’s words: *You don’t have to do everything alone.*
And she remembered her own promise—to live, not just survive.
“Okay,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “I’ll go.”
Robert’s eyes gleamed with approval. “Excellent. I’ll have my stylist send over options. Something that says ‘rising star,’ not ‘nervous newbie.’”
That evening, Mary told the children about the gala over spaghetti. John clapped excitedly. “Will there be cake?”
“Probably,” Mary said, twirling noodles around her fork.
Patricia, however, studied her mother closely. “Will *he* be there?”
Mary froze. She hadn’t mentioned James to them—not directly. But children sensed things. Especially this one.
“I don’t know,” Mary admitted quietly. “But if he is… it doesn’t matter. Because I’m not running anymore.”
Patricia considered this, then nodded slowly. “Good. Because you’re stronger than him.”
Mary laughed, though her eyes stung again. “Where do you get these ideas?”
“From watching you,” Patricia said simply, before taking a huge bite of garlic bread.
Later, as Mary tucked them into bed, she kissed each forehead and whispered, “Thank you for believing in me.”
John mumbled, “Love you, Mommy.”
Patricia, already half-asleep, murmured, “Go shine.”
And for the first time in years, Mary believed she could.
She walked back to her room, opened her laptop—not to work, but to search for one thing: *James Lin charity donations 2023.*
If he was going to be at the gala, she wouldn’t walk in blind. She’d walk in armed.
Because this time, she wasn’t the frightened girl he’d claimed as a trophy.
This time, she was Mary—the mother, the designer, the woman who’d rebuilt her life from ashes.
And she was ready to meet him on equal ground.
Even if it terrified her.
Even if it changed everything.
- Writer
