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"Very well, Grayson. If you insist on proceeding with this foolish infatuation, I suppose I have no choice but to accept it. But mark my words...you will come to regret this decision. And when you do...don't come crying to me."
With that, the line goes dead, leaving me staring at the phone in my hand with a mixture of anger and disbelief.
I knew my mother would have her reservations about Amara, that she would likely try to interfere in our relationship in some way. But to hear her so blatantly dismiss my feelings, to try and manipulate me into a loveless marriage for the sake of money and status. Ridiculous.
It's a betrayal that cuts deep, a reminder of just how little my own mother truly knows me.
But even as the hurt and anger swirl inside me, I feel a flicker of determination, a steadfast resolve that only grows stronger with each passing moment.
I love Amara. Wholly. Completely. And no amount of maternal meddling or societal pressure will ever change that.
And if my mother can't accept that...
Then that is her loss, and her burden to bear.
I am the CEO and majority shareholder, after all. I can make her life a living hell, shut down her company cards, and take my estate back.
But as I sit there, stewing in my own righteous indignation, a small, nagging voice in the back of my mind whispers a warning.
Evelyn Winthrop is not a woman to be trifled with.
And if she is truly determined to sabotage my relationship with Amara, then we should be careful. Nothing will stop her from throwing all of her resources to stop this wedding if she so chooses.
A few weeks later, I'm sitting in my office, pouring over some financial reports, when my intercom buzzes with a message from my assistant.
"Mr. Winthrop, your mother is here to see you. She says it's urgent."
I frown, a sense of unease prickling at the back of my neck. It's not like Evelyn to show up unannounced, especially not after our last tense conversation.
"Send her in," I say, steeling myself for whatever fresh hell she's about to unleash.
The door swings open, revealing my mother in all her designer-clad glory. She sweeps into the room, her high heels clicking ominously against the marble floor.
"Grayson, darling," she trills, air-kissing my cheek with a cool, perfunctory peck. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I have some information that simply couldn't wait."
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest as I eye her warily. "And what information might that be, Mother? I thought I told you the matter was settled. If this is another attempt to convince me to break things off with Amara..."
Evelyn holds up a perfectly manicured hand, silencing me mid-sentence. "Oh, no, dear. I've come to realize the error of my ways on that front. You're a grown man, capable of making your own decisions."
I blink, taken aback by her sudden change of tune. "I...well, thank you, Mother. That's very big of you to admit."
She smiles, a cat-like curl of her lips that sends a shiver down my spine. "Of course, darling. I only want what's best for you, after all. Which is why I felt it was my duty to bring this to your attention."
With a flourish, she produces a thick manila envelope from her Birkin bag, sliding it across my desk with a sense of barely-contained triumph.
I pick it up gingerly as if it might bite me. "What's this?"
"Just a little...research I've been conducting," Evelyn says, examining her perfectly lacquered nails with a studied nonchalance. "On your darling fiancée, Amara."
My heart stops, a cold sweat breaking out on my brow. "You...you've been investigating Amara? Why? What could you possibly hope to find?"
Evelyn tuts, a sound of mock sympathy. "Oh, Grayson. I was only looking out for your best interests, darling. The family's best interest. Would be selfish not to. You understand, don’t you? And what I found...Well, let's just say it's rather alarming."
With trembling fingers, I open the envelope, my eyes widening as I take in the contents.
Police reports. News articles. Affidavits from anonymous sources.
All painting a picture of Amara that I hardly recognize.
