Operational Error (Ongoing)

The Fragile Facade

MILES

When I walked out of the bedroom, the living room still held the lingering ghost of her presence. It was the scent of Camille's expensive shampoo—a light, almost citrusy fragrance, too bright and soft for the controlled woman who wore it. It clung stubbornly to the air, an emotional residual I couldn't brush away. Evie was already at school, and the enormous, aching silence of the house felt impossible to bear.

She was an observer, yes, but her focus wasn't lethal; it was protective. She had loved Camille like a daughter, which meant her current disappointment was profound—she hadn't just lost a daughter-in-law; she'd lost the woman she and my father had chosen to bring into our chaotic, loving fold.

"Well," she said, setting the mug down with a decisive clink that sounded less like a gavel and more like a warning bell. "What was that? Don't tell me you two were 'working.'"

I dropped onto the armchair opposite her, already drained. "It was... an accident. A late night of work, a sofa, and poor judgment," I admitted.

Eleanor didn't shudder about the lack of morality; she shuddered about the lack of self-care. "Poor judgment is an understatement, Miles. I saw her face. She looked like she was running from a fire. And that dress—"

Her voice softened, laced with a genuine ache. "I remember helping you pick that aquamarine cashmere out for her first birthday after Evie was born. We had to argue with her for an hour that it was appropriate for a black-tie event. It was the only thing she owned that didn't feel like armor. Seeing it rumpled like that..." Eleanor broke off, composing herself. "And I saw the way her hand rested, just for a second too long, on your wrist when she pulled it away to grab her keys. It wasn't a lover's touch, but it certainly wasn't a colleague's, either. It was... residual. And that residual is going to scorch you again."

I nodded, resting my head against the worn leather. "I know. And I admit, I felt a dangerous flicker of victory. All this time, I've been fighting the lawyer, the marble statue she built. But this morning? That was Camille. Scared, ashamed, and deeply regretting the fact that her body relaxed enough to sleep next to me. The lawyer doesn't sleep on the opposing party's couch."

My mom gave me a long, considering look, her gaze tightening slightly, not with judgment, but with strategic care. "She signed the injunction, Miles. She filed it. That wasn't the Camille we love; that was Arthur's daughter, making a legal move to protect Arthur's world. That coldness is ingrained. She chose the money, she chose the name."

"She chose the armor," I corrected, my voice dropping. "She ran from here, where she was safe, straight back to the firm to prove to Thatcher—and herself—that she wasn't 'breaking.' But the aggression confirms the weakness. She's compensating because she's terrified of what's happening at Wrenn, Mom. The injunction is a desperate countermeasure."

"And what did you tell me she said when she drove away?" My mother's tone shifted into the familiar, strategic gear. This wasn't her being cold; this was her helping me dissect the problem so I wouldn't get blindsided.

I leaned forward, the exhaustion lifting, replaced by a sudden, thrilling clarity. "I told her that she craves home, and she didn't deny it. That's the vulnerability. The TCA, the freeze, the injunction—that's all the armor she uses to feel safe. Arthur Wrenn taught her that money is safety, and I have to teach her that safety is here, in the mess, with us."

Mom finally smiled, a small, approving expression that felt like a powerful vote of confidence. "You are going to leverage her guilt. You are going to attack the Arthur Wrenn doctrine by showing her that true safety lies not in control, but in commitment."