Just my name. That's it.

She wasn't asking. She wasn't even really calling me out. It was more like... a gentle save wrapped in maternal disappointment.

"A Michelin-star restaurant." She enunciated each word like she was reading my charges in a courtroom. "When exactly were you planning to mention this or—" and here her eyes narrowed just slightly, the way they do when she's charting something particularly stupid a doctor did "—let your sisters tell me and never discuss it?"

Thanks for the save, Mom. I mouthed.

She knew I hated talking about myself—hated explaining the things I built, the things that lived inside my head like noisy roommates. And the ARIA was secret. She got it, the way only someone who's been wiping your nose and your tears for seventeen years can get it.

Everyone turned to look at her, this woman sitting at the end of the table with posture so perfect it should be studied by scientists, her expression that impossible blend of I-made-you pride and I-will-end-you exasperation.

And flanking her like backup dancers were Emma and Sarah, both biting their lips so hard I was surprised they weren't bleeding, trying not to burst into that chaotic laughter that would absolutely detonate the entire evening.

"I was going to tell you," I said carefully, like I was diffusing a bomb—which, effectively, I was. We had to play it well. "Tonight, actually. After dinner."

"After dinner," Mom repeated, and the dryness in her voice could dehydrate grapes. "So you bought a restaurant—"

"Three days ago," Sarah supplied, helpful as a bullet to the kneecap, my sisters playing Jesus for me in the most chaotic way possible. Just absolutely cute.

"Thank you, Sarah." Mom didn't even look at her, those laser-focus eyes still locked on me like I was a particularly tricky diagnosis. "You bought a restaurant three days ago. Have been running it successfully. Increased revenue by—what was it Madison said? A chunk of percent?"

She made this little hand gesture like she was mentally measuring something. "And you didn't think your mother—the woman who you live with, who still does your laundry when you forget, who knows exactly how many Red Bulls you drink in a week—might want to know about this?"

"To be fair," Emma chimed in, and I could see the mischief sparkling in her eyes like fucking stardust, chaos incarnate wearing a designer dress, "he also bought you a mansion and a Mercedes. The restaurant is kind of... what's the word? Small potatoes?"

Emma, you absolute agent of mayhem. I loved her. I also wanted to strangle her.

"Emma," Mom said, and it was amazing how much warning she could pack into one syllable, how she could make your own name sound like a threat against your life.

"I'm just saying!" Emma threw her hands up, the picture of innocent mischief. "Our brother is apparently a secret mogul. Who knew?"

"I knew he was brilliant," Mom said, and her tone shifted just slightly, softening at the edges like butter left out too long. "But Peter..."

She looked at me with those nurse's eyes, the ones that saw everything, that saw me at nine years old crying over code that wouldn't compile.

"A restaurant? That's not just buying property. That's active management. Operational oversight. That takes time and attention and—" she paused, and I could see her doing the mental math, the schedule in her head "—when have you even been doing this?"

"I handle most of the operational analytics," I explained, trying to sound like this was a normal conversation and not a maternal deposition. "Madison manages the day-to-day. I mostly handle financial modeling and strategic planning. It's not as time-intensive as it sounds."

"Not as time-intensive," Mom repeated, and the sarcasm was so dry it could start a wildfire. "You're soon becoming seventeen, Peter. You should be worried about college applications and SAT scores and whether that girl in your calculus class likes you back, not running restaurants and—" she gestured vaguely at the room "—whatever this is."

"I'm also engaged, apparently," I said, and the words just... slipped out. Casual. Like I was mentioning the weather. "So college applications might be less relevant."

The table went quiet. Not quiet like before—that awkward, heavy silence. This was different. This was the sound of a record scratching, of a narrative collapsing, of everyone simultaneously realizing they've been reading the wrong script.

Mom's expression shifted again, like someone was changing the channel in her brain. "Engaged. Right." She looked at Madison. Then at Antonio. Then back at me, and I could see the what-the-fuck-peter calculation happening behind her eyes. "We're going to have a very long conversation later. About all of this."

I gave her the smallest wink, the one we developed when I was seven and lying about who ate the last cookie. She smiled—just a twitch—and mouthed: Always, honey.

"Mrs. Carter," Antonio said, jumping in with that diplomat's voice, the one that probably closed million-dollar deals while everyone else was still shaking hands. "I know this must be overwhelming. But I've been watching Peter tonight. The way he carries himself. The way he treats Madison. The respect he shows. You raised a remarkable young man."

Mom's expression did something complicated—softened and hardened at the same time, pride and protectiveness warring for control. "Thank you. Though I'm not sure I can take credit for the business empire part. That seems to have come from somewhere else."

"Genetics," Sarah said quietly, and the word landed like a brick through a window.

The table went very still. I saw Mom's hands clench slightly on her napkin, the knuckles going white in that way that meant she was trying not to hit something. Because we didn't talk about this. We didn't talk about the woman who died giving birth to me, the woman whose DNA I carried around like a stranger's luggage, the woman who—

"Sarah," I said quietly. "Not the time."

"I'm just saying," Sarah continued, either oblivious or deliberately pushing that button because Sarah's never met a boundary she didn't want to stress-test. "Business acumen that advanced at sixteen? That's genetic. That's—"

"Sarah." Mom's voice was firm now, the ICU-nurse voice that had stopped actual surgeons mid-sentence. I'd seen it happen. It was terrifying. "Your brother's intelligence and drive come from him. Not from genetics. Not from anyone else. From the choices he's made and the work he's put in."

This was going from the save to awkwardness.

She looked at me then, and her eyes were fierce. Fierce in that way that makes you feel simultaneously invincible and like you want to curl up in her lap and cry. "You're my son, Peter. Biology doesn't change that. Neither does money or restaurants or anything else."

My chest tightened, that familiar knot of love and guilt. "I know, Mom."

"Good." She picked up her wine glass, took a sip that was more like a gulp. "Now. Can we please have a meal without anymore—" she gestured vaguely at the air "—revelations?"

Sabrina had been watching this entire exchange like it was a documentary about a species she didn't know existed.

Her eyes moved between Mom and me, back and forth, and I could see something shifting in her expression.

Understanding, maybe.

Or recognition of what real maternal love looked like—what it looked like when someone fought for you not because of what you could give them, but because they'd made a choice once seventeen years ago and they were still choosing.

And when I caught her gaze—just for a moment, just long enough to let my expression shift into something that promised everything—she looked away first.

But not before I saw it. The hunger. The want.

Madre de dios, I thought, catching Antonio's eye as he finally, finally started to sense the temperature in the room had changed. What a fucking disaster.

This night was going to be long. And very, very interesting.

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