Page 92 of Unraveling Fate

“Mom?”Canon called from the blue and white tiled foyer. She might still be in bed this early. He texted her to let her know he was in the house.

Meet me on the balcony.She texted back while he was in the kitchen, arranging breakfast on a serving tray. Glasses of mango juice and half a grapefruit for her—her favorite new fad breakfast. Toast with cottage cheese and jam—his favorite as a kid.

Outside, he scooted two padded deck chairs close to a round glass table. A salt breeze scratched against his cheek, and the blush of the sunrise reflected off the ocean.

“Canon!” His mother floated onto the deck in a swirl of silk pajamas and hugged him tight. “My boy drove all the way down here to see me, what a lovely surprise.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“And you made breakfast.” She folded herself into a chair and sipped the mango juice. “Aww, and cottage cheese toast. So”—she patted his knee—“how’s my boy? How’s the campaign going?”

Canon winced. His mother’s intent shone clear to him even without his gift.How’s the campaign going?translated toGive me something I can one up the other ladies at the club with.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry,” she said, misinterpreting his expression. “You’ll win this thing, I know you will.”

Canon set his toast down. Her comment was as good a segue into why he was here as he was likely to get. His question wrestled with his breakfast in his stomach, and he breathed through his nose, trying to calm it.

“What if Idon’twin?” he asked.

“Pshh.” She waved away his worry with one hand. “That Mr. Pearce knows how extraordinary you are. He’ll take care of you.”

Mr. Pearce.Canon coughed to cover his snort of derision.Yeah, sure.“Why does he need to take care of me, Mom? You think I can’t win this thing on my own?”

Her eyes flicked to him and back to her juice, face wary. Then she laughed, light and easy. “What are you talking about, honey?”

There it was. Her reaction settled like a burning cold shell around the doubt churning in his gut, solidifying it. Turning it from worry to reality. Into truth. The chill of it slithered through his veins, raising goosebumps and swelling his throat shut.

Fight it,he urged himself. He mounted one last defense, one last campaign against the truth sweeping aside everything he’d worked to be.

“Mom, just—” He paused. Swallowed. “Just, what if I didn’t win?” He caught her eyes with his, refused to let them escape.Please, Mom. Tell me this truth is a lie.

Please.

His mother stared back for one heartbeat. For one heartbeat her beachfront-condo, silk-pajamas, yacht-party mask fractured. For one heartbeat the real, raveled and threadbare, never-listened-to cloth of her peeked through.

One heartbeat passed into another, and the mask resealed.

“Don’t be silly.” She laughed and swatted his shoulder. “What else could you do besides win?”

Canon let his own perfect-smile mask slip onto his face. The cold of the truth crept from his belly to his fingertips. “Right, right. Of course.”

“Are you staying long?” she asked.

“No. I have an appointment in Modesto this evening.”

He sipped his juice and watched the ocean with his mother, their masks firmly in place.

Canon ran the A/Con full blast the entire drive from San Diego to Modesto. The frigid air matched the cold burn in his chest. The parking lot of Learmonth Country Club was packed when he arrived. Good. A full house for Cadenza and Reyna. They deserved it. He’d play his part tonight—distracting Thomas—even if they thought ill of him. He checked Vasilios’s VIP parking spot near the front entrance. Empty.

Also good. He’s still planning on Monday.

A golden glow beckoned from the club’s windows. Inside would be warm and bustling, but Canon didn’t exit the car yet. The risks of the test he faced curdled in his stomach. But thiswas the only way forward, and no risk scared him more than that truth. He had to wipe it out.

“Keep sight of the goal,” he whispered to himself. “Become the Crown, help people. Be extraordinary.” Still, he sat in the car. He fiddled with his pearl cufflinks until they ripped through the fabric of his shirt. Growling, he tossed them aside and ran a hand through his hair in the rearview mirror. Sixteen hours of driving had left his face haggard. Fine stubble roughened his jawline, and bruise-colored circles sagged under his eyes. A coffee stain marred his untucked shirt.

He forced himself out of the car and through the club entrance. In the lobby of the dining hall, a voice caught him.

“Canon?”