Page 23 of Promised to the Heir

Next to me, Jeremy goes rigid. I glance at him. The tension around his mouth tightens. “Dad didn’t always look serious,” he counters. “He wasn’t a jokester, but he knew how to enjoy life.”

His mother’s shoulders tighten, and when she turns, something in her face changes. The spark dims, replaced by a hollow kind of focus, like she’s listening to a voice none of us can hear. “One moment he was mowing the lawn, the next…” Her breath stutters, the brush quivering in her grip. “I still don’t know why he didn’t tell anyone. He never told me…”

Her words hang in the air, heavy as wet paint. The room feels smaller, quieter, the sunlight suddenly too bright. I watch as her spine curves inward, her vibrant energy shrinking, folding in on itself like a flower withering without water.;

My throat tightens. How do you live through that? To lose the person who steadied you, who made the world make sense and to lose him so fast there’s no time to brace?

Jeremy’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “He didn’t tell anyone how sick he was. Pancreatic cancer. By the time they caught it…” He swallows. “Six weeks from diagnosis to hospice. He went fast. Too fast.”

His mother doesn’t move. Her eyes are on the painting, but she’s somewhere far beyond it. Her fingers twitch once, then drop the brush.

“Mom,” Jeremy says softly, stepping closer. “Hey. Look at me.”

She doesn’t blink. Just stares past him, lips parting like she’s about to say something but can’t find the words.

“Mrs. Weston?” I take a small step forward, uselessly. My heart aches for her. For them both.

Jeremy doesn’t panic. He knows this dance. He signals with two fingers toward the doorway, and within seconds, a nurse appears, cheerful and calm, like she’s done this a hundred times.

“Morning, Elise,” the nurse says brightly, easing in with a disarming smile. “You promised to help me with the cookies, remember? The lemon ones you like.”

At the word lemon, Elise’s eyes flicker. Her breath shudders out, and some tension leaks from her shoulders. “The cookies,” she murmurs. “Yes, lemon cookies.”

“Good,” the nurse says. “Let’s wash up first.”

Jeremy steps back, letting the nurse take over. He doesn’t look away from his mother until she’s following the nurse out, her hand resting lightly on the woman’s arm.

The studio feels different once she’s gone. Quieter, but not empty. My gaze drifts to the painting she left behind. It is bold and fearless, full of life and heat. But now, standing in the silence she left, the colors look almost violent. A scream trapped on canvas.

“She was so bright a minute ago,” I say softly.

“She always is,” he answers. “Until she’s not.”

I look at him, at the sadness in his eyes that doesn’t belong to a man who’s ever stopped fighting. “You’ve done this before.”

“Too many times.” His gaze lingers on the doorway. “But she’s still in there. The woman who taught me to throw a ball, who sang in the kitchen, who laughed until she snorted. She’s just buried under the noise some days.”

I study the streaks of blue on the canvas, the wild beauty of them. They feel like her—messy, unfiltered, alive—but surrounded by so much stillness it hurts to look at.

“She paints like she’s trying to remind the world it’s still beautiful,” I whisper.

Jeremy glances at me. “She paints like she’s trying to remind herself.”

I drive one-handed, my right palm loose on the wheel, my left hand tangled with Clara’s between us. Her fingers fit mine like they’ve been waiting to, warm and steady, even though she hasn’t said a word since we left the facility. The silence isn’t awkward but it’s heavy. Like she’s still back there in that bright room, surrounded by my mother’s ghosts and the things she didn’t know how to say.

The road unwinds ahead through open fields, the horizon so wide it swallows the sky. Heat wavers above the asphalt, and hills loom somewhere in the distance. Inside the car, it’s quiet except for the low thrum of tires and the faint rhythm of engine. I glance at her. Her eyes are on the scenery outside like she’s never seen it before. I can’t tell if she’s thinking about my mother or me.

Part of me wonders if she’s afraid. If she’s sitting there cataloging the genetics, imagining years from now I’ll wake up hearing voices or battling ghosts that aren’t there. The thought makes my grip tighten before I catch myself.

She notices, gives a small squeeze, and that’s all it takes for the knot in my chest to ease.

When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, scratchy from holding too much back.

“My dad used to bet on horse races.” She lets out a breath that sounds more like defeat than laughter. “Then football. Then the stock market. Whatever let him believe he was smarter than the odds.”

I stay quiet. She needs space to unspool it.

“He used to drag me along to the tracks. I’d sit with a soda and a notebook while he pretended we were doing math. Said I was his lucky charm.” Her mouth twists. “Guess luck ran out.”