Patricia's Mercedes rolled into the circular driveway at exactly 2:47 PM, easing to a stop in front of the Morrison mansion.

Same towering columns, same perfect landscaping, same creepy-clean windows reflecting back the afternoon sun. The whole place still looked like a museum exhibit about rich people who'd died a century ago. Cold. Untouched. A fucking mausoleum that pretended it was a home.

But her?She wasn't the same woman who left Friday morning.

She shut off the engine and just… sat there. Fingers still wrapped tight around the steering wheel like her body hadn't caught up to the fact that she was back. Her phone had exploded the moment she powered it on—fifty-three missed calls, twenty-eight texts, three voicemails she didn't even bother listening to.

All from Richard and Jack.Not one single "Are you okay?"Not one "We're worried."

Just orders. Demands. Panic disguised as ownership.Get home now.Where the hell are you.You're being unacceptable.

Like she was a fucking Labrador that slipped the gate. Like she was property that had wandered off without permission.

She exhaled slowly, lifted her eyes to the rearview mirror.

She still wore Eros's leather jacket over her cream sweater. Still had that impossible glow on her skin—the kind you only got from being wanted, really wanted, by someone who actually saw the woman underneath the routine. Her hair was a little wild. Her lips still swollen from morning kisses that felt like they'd burned straight through her.

She looked alive.Actually alive.For the first time in seventeen years.

"You can do this," she whispered. "You're not the same woman who left Friday morning. You're not invisible anymore."

She opened the door and stepped into the late-October sunlight. Warm, golden, stupidly perfect LA weather—the kind that made people forget they were breathing in smog half the time.

The front door swung open before she even made it to the steps.

Jack filled the doorway. Her son. Eighteen. Quarterback physique, that smug all-American face the cameras loved, wrapped in expensive athleisure like he was about to film a Nike ad. His expression was a full storm—anger, irritation, entitlement, contempt.

"Well, well," he said, voice dripping sarcasm. "The runaway finally decides to grace us with her presence."

Not are you okay.Not we were worried.Just a verbal slap to the face.

Patricia stopped on the steps and really looked at him—saw exactly what Eros had warned her about, exactly what Sofia had cried over. The entitlement. The hardness behind the handsome, polished exterior. The cruelty he carried like it was inherited.

Because it was.He looked like Richard's son in every way that mattered.

"Move aside, Jack," she said quietly.

"Move aside?" He let out a laugh, sharp and ugly. "That's it? No explanation? No apology? You disappear like some irresponsible teenager, embarrass Dad at the club in front of literally everyone, and you think you can just walk back in here like nothing happened?"

"I'm not discussing this with you—"

"The fuck you're not." His voice cracked loud, echoing off the stone. "You made this family look weak! Do you know how many texts I got? How many people asking if my parents were getting divorced? Asking if you finally snapped?"

Patricia felt something settle inside her—not pain, not fear. Just recognition. He didn't care that she vanished. Didn't care if she'd been safe, hurt, dead in a ditch. He cared about gossip. About reputation. About the Morrison name.

Just like his father.

"I'm sorry your weekend was inconvenient," she said flatly. "Now move."

"Inconvenient?" Jack stepped right in front of her. Blocking her like he owned the air she breathed. "Mom, you made us look like trash. Like some dysfunctional mess that can't keep their shit together."

"Jack—"

"And for what?" His lip curled. "So you could go have your cute little midlife crisis? Play hooker for two days? Dad said you probably went to a spa, but I'm not stupid. I know what 'needing space' means for women your age. You went and fucked someone, didn't you?"

Patricia's hand moved before she consciously decided it would.The slap cracked across his cheek, loud and sharp, snapping his head sideways.

His eyes went wide with shock.God, the look was almost satisfying.

"You don't speak to me that way," Patricia said, voice trembling with white-hot rage. "I don't care what your father lets you get away with. I don't care how he talks about women. I am your mother, and you will show me respect."

Jack's fingers brushed his reddening cheek. Then he smiled—slow, cruel. A smile that didn't belong on a kid's face.

"Respect?" He laughed again. "Why would I respect you? Dad doesn't. He never has. You think I didn't notice? All these years, you walking around like a ghost, trying so fucking hard to matter, and he barely looked at you. At least he was honest."

The words hit like a punch—not because they were new, but because they were true. Jack had watched everything she endured. And he'd learned from it. Learned exactly how to dismiss a woman.

"You're just the woman who runs the house," Jack continued, tone almost bored. "The one who manages the staff, throws the parties, smiles for the photos. That's all you've ever been. A prop. A pretty prop for the Morrison name."

Patricia felt the truth rise in her throat.Eighteen years of secrets.Eighteen years of silence.Eighteen years of swallowing the truth about why she stayed, what she endured, what she was protecting.

But she couldn't spill it.Not now. Not like this.

"You're right," she said softly. "Your father never respected me. And you learned from him perfectly. You treat women exactly the way he does—like they're decorations, like their worth is measured by how much control you can exert."

"Whatever—"

"I know you and Sofia aren't together anymore," Patricia said, watching carefully. "I know she finally got away from you. Good for her."

Jack froze. His mask cracked for half a second. "You don't know anything—"

"I know enough." She walked past him, forcing him to step aside. "I know how you treated her. I know what kind of man you're becoming. And it makes me ashamed."

She left him standing there, hand still on his cheek, caught between anger and disbelief.

Patricia walked straight to Richard's office.The door was closed.She knocked once—just enough to announce herself—then pushed it open anyway.

Richard Morrison sat behind his stupidly huge mahogany desk — the kind of desk that screams, "I'm important, please admire my wood grain." Fifty-two, still wearing the remains of his former-quarterback swagger like an old varsity jacket. Cashmere sweater that probably cost more than Patricia's first car. Gray at the temples in that "distinguished" way he liked to pretend was effortless.

He looked up when she walked in.

Instant fury. The barely-contained, jaw-ticking, I'm-about-to-be-a-problem kind.

"Patricia," he said, voice cold enough to chill the room. "How kind of you to finally grace us with your presence."

She shut the door on Jack before he could even blink. This wasn't a spectator sport.

"Richard," she said, calm like someone choosing violence politely. "We need to talk."

"Oh, we need to talk?" He pushed away from the desk so fast his chair groaned. "You vanish for two days. Two. Days. No explanation. No calls. One text telling me to 'wait.' What the hell was that?"

"That was me taking time for myself," Patricia said. "Something I should've done a long time ago."

Richard actually laughed — a bitter, ugly crack of a sound.

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