Chapter 6

The jumpsuit is black, tailored, with a zipper that runs up the back in a clean silver line. I fasten it without thinking—left arm, right arm, reach behind and pull. The fabric settles against my hips, my waist, my breasts. Powerful. That's how Madison feels in this jumpsuit. That's how I feel.

Jordan's gold bangle slides onto my wrist. The diamond nose stud catches the light. A spritz of Jo Malone at my throat. In the mirror, Madison Brooks looks back at me—blonde hair sleek, lips nude and polished, eyes sharp. Ready for battle. Or dinner with my mother. Same thing.

I can hear her downstairs already. Diane's voice carries—that confident drawl, directing the staff about the wine, the place settings, the timing of the roast. She's been preparing for this dinner all day. She always prepares. The Brooks Estate doesn't host; it performs.

Jordan's text buzzes on my phone. Parking now. Want me to come up or meet you at the door?

Come up, I type back. I need a buffer.

That bad?

She's been downstairs for an hour. I can hear her from my suite.

Jordan sends a single emoji: a pink heart. I've got you.

---

She meets me at the top of the grand staircase. Her pink bob is freshly washed, slightly damp at the ends. She's wearing her oversized blush denim jacket—the one with the mural Madison painted on their first anniversary, the one that makes her look like an art student who accidentally became cool. Underneath, a silk camisole and high-waisted culottes. Platform sneakers. Silver chain at her throat. She looks like herself. She looks like home.

"Hey," she says, her voice low and unhurried. She kisses me—brief, warm, her lips tasting like the mint tea she drinks on the drive over. "You look incredible."

"So do you." I touch the lapel of her jacket. "You wore the mural one."

"Armor." She shrugs. "Figured we could both use some."

I love her. The thought surfaces without effort—Madison's love, filtered through my own consciousness, felt as my own. The guilt hums beneath it, quiet and constant. She's wearing the jacket Madison painted for her. But I didn't paint it. Madison did. I push the thought aside. Not now. Diane first.

---

The dining room is a production.

Crystal chandelier. Cream silk curtains. A table that seats twelve, set for four—Kenneth is working late, as usual, and Tyler begged off with something about a band practice. That leaves me, Jordan, Diane, and an empty chair where my father should be. The place settings are immaculate. The wine is already breathing in a decanter. The centerpiece is fresh flowers—white roses, Diane's signature.

Diane herself is a vision. Red wrap dress. Nude pumps. The Hermès scarf knotted at her throat. Her blonde bob is salon-fresh, her lipstick a perfect matte red. She's standing by the window with a glass of Chardonnay, and when she turns to greet us, her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Madison." She air-kisses my cheek. Her perfume—Chanel Coco Mademoiselle—envelopes me. "You look... polished. That jumpsuit is new?"

"A few months old," I say. "You've seen it before."

"Have I?" She tilts her head, studying me. "Well. It's very striking." Her gaze shifts to Jordan. "And Jordan. How nice to see you again."

"Mrs. Brooks." Jordan's voice is steady. She doesn't offer a hand—she learned early that Diane doesn't do handshakes with "Madison's friends." "Thank you for having me."

"Of course. Any friend of Madison's is welcome." The emphasis on friend is subtle but unmistakable. Diane's smile stays fixed. "Shall we sit?"

---

The first course is a winter salad—pear, walnut, blue cheese. The wine is a Napa Cabernet that Diane spent twenty minutes selecting. The conversation is surface-level: my job, the upcoming launch, Jordan's freelance work. Diane asks polite questions and listens to the answers with the air of someone gathering intelligence.

Then the salad plates are cleared, and the real dinner begins.

"I ran into Margaret Atwood again," Diane says, dabbing her lips with her napkin. "You remember Margaret. Her son is doing so well in finance. He just bought a condo in the city."

"That's nice for him," I say. Madison's voice—bright, controlled. The body knows how to do this dance.

"She asked about you. I told her you're still at that startup." Still at that startup. The words are a papercut—small, precise, delivered without malice but with perfect accuracy. "She was surprised. With your qualifications, she said, you could be at a Fortune 500 by now."

The inherited resentment rises—a wave of heat in my chest, Madison's years of this exact conversation stored in every synapse. Still at that startup. Still seeing that girl. Still not good enough.

"I like my job," I say. "The launch is going well. We're ahead of schedule."

"Mm." Diane sips her wine. "And Jordan, how is the freelance work? Steady?"

"It has its ups and downs," Jordan says. Her voice is calm, unhurried. She doesn't flinch. "I just fired a difficult client, actually. Best decision I've made all month."

"Fired a client." Diane's eyebrows lift. "That's... bold. I hope you have something else lined up."

"I do. A branding project I'm excited about."

"Well. Good for you." Diane's tone says the opposite. She turns back to me. "Madison, you look tired. Are you sleeping? You know, when I was your age, I made sure to get eight hours every night. It makes a difference in your skin."

My jaw tightens. Madison's jaw. My irritation. She doesn't know she's talking to a stranger. She thinks she's helping her daughter. She thinks she's being a good mother.

And beneath that thought, a memory surfaces—

Madison at sixteen. The school dance. A blue dress she saved up for, bought with her own money from her summer job. She came downstairs feeling beautiful for the first time in her life. Diane looked up from her wine and said, "That color washes you out, sweetheart. Do you have something in pink?" Madison went back upstairs and cried. She wore the blue dress anyway, but she didn't feel beautiful again for years.

The memory fades as quickly as it came—triggered by Diane's criticism, by the same dismissive tone, the same "sweetheart" wrapped around a blade. The emotional residue lingers: the humiliation, the disappointment, the desperate wish for a mother who could just say you look beautiful and mean it.

"I'm sleeping fine," I say. My voice is cooler now. "And I'm not tired. I'm just not wearing as much makeup as you."

The table goes quiet. Jordan's hand finds my knee under the table—a brief squeeze, a grounding pressure.

Diane sets her wine glass down. "There's no need to be defensive. I'm just looking out for you."

"No, you're not." The words come out before I can stop them—Madison's courage, my anger. "You're critiquing me. You've been critiquing me since I walked in the door. My job, my relationship, my appearance. It's what you always do."

"I beg your pardon—"

"Jordan is my partner. She's not my friend. She's not a phase. She's the person I love, and she's been nothing but gracious to you, and you can't even use her name without putting quotes around it."

Diane's face goes very still. The only sound is the distant clink of the staff cleaning up in the kitchen.

"I have always supported you," Diane says quietly. "Everything I've done has been to help you succeed."

"I know you believe that." My voice softens—Madison's love for her mother bleeding through the resentment. "I know you do. But Mom, the way you show it hurts. It's always hurt."

The word Mom lands differently. Not a weapon. Not a reflex. A bridge. Diane's eyes glisten for just a moment before she looks away.

"I think I'll check on the dessert," she says, and stands, and leaves the room.

---

Jordan drives.

The Tesla hums through the dark streets, the city lights sliding past in streaks of gold and white. My jumpsuit feels heavier now—the armor of it, the performance of it. I lean my head against the cool window and watch the Brooks Estate recede in the side mirror.

Neither of us speaks for a long time. Jordan's hand rests on my thigh, warm through the fabric. Her thumb traces small circles. The gesture is automatic—she's done this a hundred times, in a hundred cars, after a hundred difficult moments. The body relaxes into the touch. I relax into it.

"You were incredible in there," she says finally. Her voice is low, unhurried, the same voice she uses for everything. "I've never seen you stand up to her like that."

"She deserved it." My own voice sounds tired. Madison's voice, drained of its usual brightness.

"Yeah. She did." Jordan glances at me. "But that doesn't make it easy. She's still your mom."

The guilt hums. She's not my mom. She's Madison's mom. I just spent an hour fighting with a woman who doesn't know her daughter is gone. The hum is quiet but steady, a bass note beneath the gratitude. Jordan thinks she's comforting her girlfriend. She doesn't know she's comforting a thief.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," I say. The words are true in a way Jordan can't understand.

"You'll never have to find out." She squeezes my thigh. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

The city slides past. The Tesla hums. Jordan's hand is warm and steady on my leg. The guilt and the gratitude lie side by side in my chest—parallel lines that never quite touch but somehow both hold me up.

---

Back at the suite, Jordan makes tea.

She moves through my kitchen with the ease of someone who's been here a hundred times—knows where the mugs are, knows I like chamomile after a fight, knows the honey goes in before the water. Her pink bob is slightly mussed from the long day. The sleeve of her denim jacket has a new paint smudge—olive green, from the canvas she was working on last week.

I sit on the couch, still in my jumpsuit, the gold bangle catching the lamplight. The adrenaline has faded. What's left is a heavy, quiet exhaustion—and something else. Relief. I said what Madison always wanted to say. I defended Jordan. I stood up to Diane.

But Madison didn't do any of that. I did. Using her body, her voice, her memories—but my anger, my choices, my words. The line between us blurs a little more every day.

Jordan brings the tea. She sits beside me, close enough that her thigh presses against mine. She doesn't ask if I want to talk. She just waits—steady, present, her sandalwood scent mixing with the chamomile steam.

"Thank you," I say. "For being there. For being you."

"That's the easiest thing I do." She leans her head against my shoulder. Her hair smells like incense and coffee. "I love you, Madison."

The needle slides between my ribs—cold, bright, familiar. She's saying it to Madison. She's looking at Madison's face and loving Madison's soul, and I'm not Madison.

But I say it anyway. "I love you too."

Because it's true. The love is real, even if the body isn't mine. The gratitude is real, even if it's built on a lie. The guilt and the joy hum their quiet duet, and I hold Jordan closer, and the night settles around us like a second blanket.

The body is my home. This life is my life. And somewhere underneath it all, the quiet shadow of the guilt hums on—present, permanent, and not enough to make me leave.