Chapter 121

Iris

My palms are sweaty as Ezra parks the car in front of the main entrance to my parents’ estate. I check my reflection in my compact mirror one last time—hair neatly brushed, light makeup, a simple but elegant dress. I look put together, but my insides feel like they’re on fire.

We exit the car, and I help Miles out of his seat. He immediately grabs my hand, sensing my anxiety. He’s being remarkably calm, which I appreciate more than he could possibly know. Arthur takes my other hand and gives it a squeeze as we walk up the path.

The front door opens before we reach it. Caleb steps out, grinning. “They’re waiting in the solarium,” he says, then adds in a whisper to me, “Mom hasn’t stopped crying all morning.”

The word “Mom” makes my throat tighten. I’ve never had a mom before. Not even an adoptive one. No one wanted the “human” kids at the orphanage. Little did they know that I wasn’t one.

Caleb leads us through the mansion, which is every bit as impressive as I remember. High ceilings, marble floors, artwork that probably costs more than my entire life savings. My focus narrows to the double doors at the end of a long hallway.

The doors swing open to reveal a bright, airy greenhouse room filled with plants and bathed in natural light. And there they are—my parents—standing nervously in the center of the room.

My mother, Maeve, is tall and elegant, with the same amber eyes as mine and the loveliest head of golden hair I’ve ever seen. My father, Francis, is distinguished and muscular, with salt-and-pepper hair, a perfect mustache, and a strong jawline. The perfect picture of werewolf nobility.

They both freeze when they see me, and for a moment, we all just stare at each other in disbelief.

Then my mother lets out a small sob and rushes forward, pulling me into her arms. “Iris,” she whispers against my hair. “My baby girl.”

The dam breaks then, and suddenly I’m crying too, clinging to this woman who gave birth to me twenty-six years ago. I can’t speak, can’t think, can only feel the overwhelming sense that I’ve finally found where I belong.

My father joins the embrace, his strong arms wrapping around both of us. “You look just like your mother,” he says, and his words make it feel so much more real, as if my dream state has finally given way to bright, glaring reality.

We stand like that for what feels like an eternity, this tangle of limbs and tears and joy. It’s Miles who finally breaks the spell, tugging at my dress. “Mommy, why is everyone crying?”

I laugh through my tears and pull back, wiping my eyes. “Because we’re happy, sweetie. These are your grandparents.”

My mother—I still can’t believe I have a mother—kneels down to Miles’ level. “Hello, Miles. I’m your grandmother, but you can call me Nana if you like.”

Miles shrinks away from her, avoiding her gaze. “Do you have any toys?”

I bite my lip at Miles’ bluntness, but to my surprise and delight, my parents don’t bat an eye. “Yes. As a matter of fact,” my father says, “we have a whole playroom set up for you. Would you like to see it?”

Miles’ eyes widen, and he looks at me as if for confirmation. I give him a nod, and he bashfully whispers, still staring at the floor, “Yes, please.”

“I’ll take him,” Caleb offers. “Let you all get acquainted.”

As Caleb leads Miles away, my mother takes my hands in hers, studying my face. “You look so much like me at your age,” she says. “Except for your nose.”

“My nose…” I whisper, touching it self-consciously.

My father chuckles. “That’s a compliment, darling.” He taps his own nose. “The one trait you share with me—thank the Goddess you didn’t inherit anything else from your brute of an old man. But a Willford nose is quite strong and distinctive. Powerful. And quite lovely on your beautiful face.”

I can’t help but blush at that. I’ve always thought my nose was strange and unseemly, but now that I’m witnessing my parents for the first time and seeing everything I’ve inherited from them, I have a whole different perspective on my appearance.

“Please, sit,” my mother says, gesturing to a seating area by the windows. “We have so much to talk about.”

Arthur, who’s been hanging back, follows us to the couches. My father eyes him warily but extends a hand. “Alpha President,” he says formally.

“Mr. Willford,” Arthur replies.

The tension between them is palpable. I wonder if they got along when Selina was in the picture. But then again, Selina is still their daughter, even if she wasn’t supposed to be. They’re probably wary after what happened. I can’t blame them, but I do hope the bad feelings will ease over time.

My mother, thankfully, ignores the male posturing. “Iris, we’ve heard that you’re an artist,” she says eagerly. “We’d love to see your work.”

“Oh!” I suddenly remember the package I’ve been clutching. “Actually, I brought something. For both of you.” I hand them the small wrapped canvas.

My mother carefully removes the paper to reveal the painting I stayed up late finishing—a portrait of Miles playing on the beach. He’s laughing, dark hair windswept and flecked with sea salt. He’s kicking at the water that he’s standing ankle-deep in, and a spray of it is arcing over his head, catching the light of the setting sun. The whole picture looks like it’s shimmering.

“Iris,” my mother breathes. “This is extraordinary.”

“The level of detail is remarkable,” my father agrees, peering closely at the canvas. “You’re truly talented.”

A warm glow spreads through my chest at their praise. “Thank you. Art has always been my passion.”

“And it should be,” my mother says firmly. “We’ll have to see about getting you a proper studio here.”

“Here?” I blink in surprise.

“Well, of course,” my father says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “This is your home too, Iris. We have more than enough space.”

Arthur remains silent, but stiffens slightly beside me. We haven’t had a chance to talk about it lately, but there was talk of moving back in with him once my residency is up.

I can tell he’s not thrilled about the idea of me moving in with my parents, not that he’d stop me if I wanted to. But their home is far outside the city and would put a lot of distance between Arthur and I if I did move in, and I’m not sure if I want that.

“I—thank you,” I stammer, not quite sure how to respond. “But I have my apartment, and my residency at the Abbott Gallery…”

“The space is here for visits or if you decide you want to live here,” my mother assures me. “And as for Miles, we’ve prepared a suite and a nanny for him here as well, just in case. Our nanny is specially trained with children on the spectrum, so you don’t need to worry.”

My eyes widen. I look at Arthur, but he looks just as dumbfounded as I am. “How… How did you know?” I ask.

My mother’s expression softens. “My brother—your uncle Thomas—was autistic,” she says gently. “He passed away a few years ago, but I grew up with him. I know the signs.”

I’m at a loss for words. They’re accepting Miles—something that so many people have refused to do before. Arthur’s parents have already made it perfectly clear that Miles’ differences are a burden, something to be fixed.

The very thought that Miles finally has a family that accepts him brings tears of joy to my eyes.

The conversation flows easily after that. They tell me about my family history—apparently, my great-great-great grandmother was the first Supreme Judge of Ordan. My grandfather was a decorated veteran. They show me family albums full of pictures. They ask countless questions about my life, my interests, my hopes for the future.

Through it all, Arthur sits quietly beside me, offering the occasional word or nod but not saying much other than that. I can tell he’s slightly uncomfortable. They all are; my father often looks at Arthur with obvious distrust, and my mother seems to be actively avoiding eye contact with him.

After what feels like hours, my parents exchange a meaningful look.

“Iris,” my father says. “We’ve been discussing your public debut as a Willford.”

My throat bobs. I knew this was coming.

“Now, you’re perfect the way you are, but your introduction to society is very important,” my mother explains. “As our daughter and heir to the Willford estate, it needs to be handled carefully.” She gives Arthur a meaningful look, as if to silently say that he didn’t exactly do a bang-up job of helping me with my initial debut as his mate. “We think a ball here at the estate would be perfect.”

“A… ball?”

“We’ve already started making arrangements,” my father adds. “Although of course, there’s still much to do. You’ll need more training first—proper etiquette, a custom gown for your debut…”

My mother grins. “And dance lessons.”