Chapter Fifteen
Charity
Perhaps I’d gotten complacent. After I showed him my workshop, we fell into something that felt almost like a life.
Although we slept in different houses, we shared almost every other hour of the day.
I showed him all of my art pieces, even the ones I deemed not good enough to sell.
He always found something to praise, even as he acknowledged that now I can do so much better.
I spend most evenings with him practicing the little feats of magic he teaches me.
Neither of us says it, but we’re circling something big—taking our time, letting the trust settle.
Then, today, I made a huge mistake, leaving my phone on the breakfast table.
I didn't even realize I'd done it at first. Was too busy floating through the morning in a haze of contentment, replaying yesterday in the workshop—my hands guiding Draco’s as I taught him to weld, the way he looked at my dragon sculpture like it was something sacred, the kiss that left me breathless against the workbench.
I make it all the way through breakfast with Mother and Father, nodding in the right places during their discussion of the upcoming charity gala, before I notice my phone isn't in my pocket.
My stomach drops.
I left it on the table. Face up. Unlocked.
Right next to Mother's coffee cup.
"Excuse me," I murmur, standing abruptly enough that Father glances up from his newspaper with mild concern.
"Are you feeling well, Charity?" Mother asks. "You've barely touched your eggs."
"I'm fine. It’s just—I forgot something in my room."
I'm already moving toward the table where I left my phone, but Mother's faster. She picks it up with that delicate grip she uses for things that might be distasteful, her perfectly manicured fingers holding it like it might contaminate her.
"You left this, dear." She glances at the screen, and I watch her expression shift from mild concern to frozen displeasure. "Who—or what—is Draco?"
The name hangs in the air like an accusation.
Father lowers his newspaper. The room goes very quiet.
"A friend," I manage, though my voice comes out too high. Too defensive.
"A friend." Mother's tone could freeze water.
She's reading the screen now, and I know exactly what she's seeing—the text thread from this morning.
Draco's message about Lucky learning a new trick.
My response with a heart emoji. His follow-up, asking if I wanted to try the new Thai place in the Village tonight.
Evidence of a life she doesn’t oversee. A person she’s never met. Plans that don’t need her permission.
"Charity." Father's voice is measured. Careful. The tone he uses in board meetings when someone has made a critical error. "Would you care to explain why you're making dinner plans with a stranger?"
"He's not a stranger." The words come out sharper than I intend. "I've known him for weeks."
"Weeks?" Mother sets my phone down like it's burning her fingers. "You've been seeing someone for weeks and didn't think to mention it to us?"
"I didn't think it was relevant."
The lie tastes wrong on my tongue. Of course, it's relevant. Everything about my life is relevant to them—they've made sure of that for twenty-five years.
Mother's jaw tightens. "Not relevant. You're making plans to go to—" she glances at my phone again, distaste curling her lip "—the Village with someone we've never met, and you don't think that's information we should have?"
"I'm twenty-five." Meeting her eyes feels like stepping into a spotlight. "And friendships aren’t something you get to decide for me."
The words hang there, sharp and dangerous, and my pulse spikes so hard I feel it in my throat. Terror flickers through me—God, I actually said that—but beneath the fear, something steadier unfurls. Pride. A thin, trembling thread of it, but mine.
"Friends." Father folds his newspaper with precise movements. "Is that what this young man is? A friend?"
The emphasis on the word makes heat climb my neck. They're not stupid. They can read subtext as well as anyone, and the messages on my phone are full of it.
"Yes," I say. Then, because I'm tired of lying: "Maybe more than that."
Mother stands abruptly. "I beg your pardon?"
"I've been seeing someone." The admission feels like jumping off a cliff. "His name is Draco. He's kind and talented, and he makes me feel like I can actually breathe for the first time in my life."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Father speaks first, his voice dangerously calm. "And where did you meet this person?"
I can't tell them the truth. Can’t exactly tell her I found him hiding in Grace’s cottage because he was broke and desperate and I chose to help him over calling security. That would be the end of everything.
"Around the city," I say vaguely. "We have common interests."
"Common interests." Mother's laugh is sharp. "Charity, you barely leave the property. How exactly did you meet someone 'around the city'?"
"I've been going out more." I lift my chin, defensive. "You've always said I should be more social."
"We said you should attend appropriate social functions with appropriate people." Mother's voice is rising now, that careful control starting to crack. "Not—not gallivanting around Manhattan with strangers we know nothing about!"
"He's not a stranger to me."
"But he is to us!" She presses her fingers to her temples like I'm giving her a migraine. "You know nothing about this person. His family. His background. His—his intentions."
The word lands like a slap. Intentions.
Because that's what this is really about. Not my safety. Not my happiness. My suitability as a potential Pembroke match.
"He's a performer," I say, and watch both their faces pale. "A magician. He does street shows and underground venues."
Father sets down his coffee cup with enough force for the liquid to spill into the porcelain saucer. "I see."
Two words. That's all it takes for me to understand exactly what they're thinking. A street performer. Not a lawyer or a doctor or a CEO. Not someone from a "good family." A performer. Practically a circus act.
"Before you say anything—" I start, but Mother cuts me off.
"We won't say anything yet." Her voice has gone cold. Controlled. The tone she uses when she's already made up her mind and is just waiting for everyone else to catch up. "But we will meet him."
"What?"
"If you insist on continuing this… association," Father says carefully, "then we'll need to meet this young man properly. Assess whether he's suitable."
Suitable. The word makes my chest tight with anger.
"You want to assess him?" I force the words out evenly. "Like he's a business investment?"
"Like he's someone who's spending time with our daughter," Mother corrects.
"Someone we know nothing about who's apparently been seeing you without our knowledge for weeks.
" She straightens her cardigan with sharp movements.
"We'll have him to dinner. This Friday. Seven o'clock. I'll have cook prepare something nice."
It's not an invitation. It's a command.
And I know exactly what they're planning.
The formal table setting. The subtle tests of etiquette and background.
The questions designed to make him feel inadequate.
They're going to try to prove he's not good enough, so I'll see reason and end things before the relationship becomes an embarrassment.
"Fine," I say, because refusing will only make things worse. "I'll invite him."
"Good." Mother's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm sure this… performer will be… delightful."
The dismissal is clear. Father returns to his newspaper. Mother picks up her coffee. The breakfast non-conversation resumes as if nothing happened.
But everything has changed.
I grab my phone from the table and escape to my room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The moment the door closes behind me, I sink onto the window seat and read with shaking hands.
Me: We need to talk. Can I come to the cottage?
His response is immediate.
Draco: Always. I'm here.
I grab my jacket—the leather one from vintage shopping that still smells faintly like him—and slip out the back way. The path to the cottage feels longer than usual, every step weighted with dread.
This is a disaster. My parents are going to eat him alive. They're going to test him and judge him and try to prove he's not suitable for the Pembroke heiress. And Draco—God, Draco—he has no idea what he's walking into.
The cottage door opens before I knock. Draco takes one look at my face and pulls me inside.
"What happened?" His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "You're shaking."
"My mother found out about you." The words tumble out. "That we've been seeing each other."
"Okay." He guides me to the sofa, sits beside me with our knees touching. "That's… not ideal, but not terrible either. Right?"
"She wants you to come to dinner. Friday night. To meet her and my father properly." I grab his hands. "Draco, this isn't just dinner. It's a test. They're going to try to prove you're not suitable, so I'll end things before we embarrass the family."
Something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or anger—but it's gone before I can name it.
"Not suitable," he repeats flatly. "Because I'm a street performer?"
"Because you're not from their world." I squeeze his hands harder.
"They're going to set traps. Probably test your table manners or knowledge of high society or—I don't know. But they'll find something to criticize. It wouldn’t matter who you were. If they didn’t pick you, they’ll arrange for you to fail their test."
Draco is quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes studying my face. "Charity," he says gently. "Look at me."
I meet his eyes, see the steadiness there. The confidence that comes from surviving things my parents can't even imagine.