Chapter 11 The Mother’s Hand

~PRESENT DAY~

Ethan woke with a pounding in his skull, the kind of headache that throbbed behind his eyes and refused to let him rest. Sleep had eluded him since their return from the Delula Fashion Hub, and no matter how many times he tried to close his eyes, a certain face forced its way into his mind—sharp, arrogant, unforgettable.

Tim.

Tim Dorian.

The name alone set Ethan’s jaw tight. That young man—cocky, self-possessed, with eyes that seemed to look through him instead of at him had managed to shake something deep inside him. The incident from last night rushed back with the violence of a whirlwind.

He swung his legs out of bed, muttering to himself, voice harsh and low.

“How dare he? What does he know about me? He knows nothing.”

The words echoed against the marble of the washroom as Ethan stepped under the spray, the water doing little to wash away his thoughts. By the time he dressed and made his way to the dining hall, his mask of control was back in place.

The long dinner table shone beneath the chandelier. Silverware cutlery neatly aligned. Steam rose from a platter of golden-brown croissants beside freshly squeezed orange juice, eggs Benedict topped with rich hollandaise, and slices of smoked salmon arranged like art. It was a breakfast of luxury—precise, elegant, excessive.

Ethan sat quietly at his end, forcing himself to eat, though every bite felt heavy.

Then, her presence announced itself before her footsteps did.

A wave of expensive perfume drifted into the dining space, filling every corner with its commanding sweetness. Madison Wellman entered, her poise effortless, her dominance unquestionable. She was a woman in her fifties, yet stunningly ageless. Her jet-black hair fell smoothly around her shoulders, styled to perfection. Her skin, polished like porcelain, held barely a whisper of wrinkles, the kind only visible when she chose to smile, which wasn’t often. Every detail about her screamed wealth and meticulous care, as though fortune itself bent around her morning routine.

She moved like a queen taking her throne, her heels tapping softly against the polished floor until she reached the opposite end of the table—the master’s seat. With an elegant nod, she lowered herself into the chair, her perfume lingering like a second presence between them.

The chef, already waiting discreetly, stepped forward.

“Madam,” he said respectfully, bowing slightly before placing her requested breakfast—an arrangement as refined as she was before her.

Ethan watched in silence, his jaw flexing as Madison Wellman’s presence swallowed the room whole.

Madison’s eyes flicked briefly toward Ethan, sharp yet unreadable, as he sat at his end of the long table, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and the Nashville Times Press spread out in front of him.

On the glossy front page, his own face stared back at him—perfectly captured, composed, untouchable. Beside him, Chloe glowed with practised elegance, the two of them portrayed like Nashville royalty. The Wellmans: Wealth Beyond Reason at the Delula Fashion Hub, the headline boasted in bold, commanding letters.

But it wasn’t the first photo that twisted Ethan’s stomach— it was the second. Further inside, a two-page spread showed him and Chloe at dinner, but with another presence at their table. Tim Dorian. Young. Smug. Unshaken under the camera’s eye. The headline beneath it read with cruel flourish:

“An Evening in Opulence: The Wellmans Share a Premium Dinner with Nashville’s Rising Fashion Star.”

The words made Ethan’s blood heat. He slammed the paper down against the polished wood, the sound sharp enough to echo, sharp enough to draw Madison’s gaze again.

She observed him, lips curving ever so slightly as she finally spoke.

“Are you okay, dear?”

Ethan forced a smile, his voice calm, almost too controlled.

“Yeah. I am. Just… a rough night.”

Madison hummed softly, a sound both indulgent and probing, as she cut into her breakfast with surgical precision.

“Speaking of rough nights,” she said smoothly, “the chef informed me you had yourself an evening out yesterday.”

Ethan stiffened, his shoulders tightening beneath his tailored shirt. That was Madison—his mother in all her perfection. Always informed, always circling, knowing everything and anything that touched his life. He set the coffee cup gently back onto its saucer, every movement deliberate, as though his calm could shield him.

“It was just a night out with Chloe, Mom,” he said evenly. “We went to the Fashion Hub in town.”

Madison dabbed the corner of her lips with a linen napkin, her expression unreadable, though her eyes gleamed with a hint of satisfaction.

“Mhm,” she hummed. “So I read in the tabs.” A pause. Her gaze sharpened. “I also read you got to meet with Tim Dorian. How did that go?”

Ethan’s eyebrow arched slowly.

“You know Tim Dorian?”

Madison’s laugh was elegant, practised, like the clink of crystal.

“Not personally,” she replied, her tone dipped with amusement. “But his reputation precedes him. He’s one of Nashville’s top fashion icons, after all.”

Her knife slid cleanly through her toast as if her words themselves were blades.

Just as Ethan parted his lips to speak, another voice floated into the room, bright and melodic, cutting straight through the tension.

“Hello, beautiful mother of mine,” Chloe sang as she entered the dining area, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She leaned down gracefully, planting a kiss on Madison’s cheek.

“Hello, gorgeous daughter of mine,” Madison replied warmly, her eyes softening for the briefest moment. Then, with that trademark Wellman poise, she added, “I see you had a bit of fun last night… meeting with Tim Dorian.”

Chloe’s face lit instantly, her tone giddy, almost theatrical.

“Right, Mother! It was phenomenal.”

She did that little thing with her eyes, narrowing them slightly, as if savouring a memory she wanted to replay forever. Then, with deliberate timing, her gaze shifted toward Ethan. Her smile thinned, sharp and knowing, before she looked back at Madison.

“But your son,” she said, her voice dripping in mock sympathy, “almost—” she paused, letting the words linger—“or should I say ruined the moment.”

Madison raised a single, immaculate brow. Her tone sharpened, subtle but commanding.

“Ruined, you say?”

Chloe nodded, a small hum escaping her lips as she reached for a piece of apple toast, biting into it delicately. She chewed slowly, letting Madison watch her, then dabbed the corner of her mouth with the napkin before continuing.

“Yes. He was rude, Mother,” she declared, glancing at Ethan with a cool smirk. “Completely disrespectful to Tim Dorian during dinner. It was embarrassing, really.”

Her words hung in the air like smoke, lingering and poisonous. Madison didn’t immediately reply—she didn’t need to. The silence itself pressed down heavily.

Ethan rose from his chair, his movements controlled, almost too controlled. His jaw was set, his hands steady, but his intent was clear—he was leaving. He wasn’t going to sit there and entertain their theatrics.

But just as he turned, Madison’s voice snapped through the air, low, firm, and absolute.

“You will have your seat back, young man.”

Ethan froze. His shoulders stiffened. For a moment, the silence roared louder than any words. Then, without protest, he lowered himself back into the chair, his lips pressed into a hard line. He said nothing.

Not a single word.

Madison set her cup down with a quiet clink and turned her gaze directly to her son. Her voice, calm but laced with iron, cut through the air.

“Is this true, Ethan William Wellman?”

The full name. The one she rarely used. It landed heavy in the room like a verdict, and even Chloe straightened in her seat, caught off guard by the sudden shift in their mother’s demeanour.

Ethan gave a slight shrug, leaning back as though the weight of her words rolled right off him.

“The guy is quite an annoying fellow… arrogant, if I may add.”

Chloe shot up instantly, her voice sharp, defensive, almost too quick.

“No, he’s not! Tim is ever so gracious.”

She said the word dreamily, her eyes softening in that way Ethan had already grown to despise.

“Well,” Ethan countered, his tone matter-of-fact as he lifted his hand in mock quotation, “I can’t stand your—‘ever so gracious’—sex appeal.”

The words lingered like a spark in dry air. Chloe gasped, scandalised, her mouth parting in disbelief at his suggestive choice. She opened her mouth to strike back, but before she could—

“Enough!” Madison’s voice boomed, filling every corner of the dining hall.

The silence that followed was sharp, brittle. Then her tone dropped, steady, low, dangerous in its calmness. She spoke directly to Ethan, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing, Ethan?”

He raised a brow, feigning confusion, though his shoulders stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

Madison leaned forward, placing both hands firmly on the polished table. The motion was deliberate, a show of authority that made Chloe’s eyes flick nervously between them.

“Haven’t you learned anything from all I’ve been teaching you so far?” she pressed, her words cutting with precision.

Ethan reclined slightly in his seat, masking unease with casual arrogance. He knew this tone—knew when his mother spoke like this, every word was a trap. He had to tread carefully.

“I still don’t get what you mean, Mother,” he said slowly.

Madison scoffed, her lips curling into the faintest bitter smile.

“Of course, you don’t. You never do.”

Her voice sharpened as she continued, every word deliberate.

“If you keep chasing away prospective allies like Tim Dorian, how do you expect to win in this forthcoming election for office? Haven’t you been learning, child?”

Her question wasn’t a question at all—it was a reminder. A warning.

Ethan’s face softened, not with agreement, but with reluctant understanding. At last, he saw clearly where his mother was coming from—her endless obsession with moulding him into the perfect political heir. Her need to see him run for office. To win at all costs.

But it wasn’t what he wanted. He never wanted this life. He didn’t see the need for it. Every move he made toward the campaign trail wasn’t for himself—it was for her. For Madison. To please her. To live up to the weight of her expectations.

And now, of all things, she was proposing he work with him.

Tim Dorian.

Ethan’s jaw tightened. Tim Dorian, that overly self-assured, insufferably polished, arrogant son of a—

He stopped mid-thought. The words felt hollow even as he hurled them in his mind. Because deep down, Ethan knew the truth. Tim wasn’t really those things. Not exactly.

Yes, he found Tim to be too provoking. Too sharp. Too… knowing. Too self-aware and confident in a way Ethan himself wasn’t. A confidence that radiated, that demanded attention without asking. And beneath it all, that air of mystery Tim carried around like a cloak—an aura that clung to him and pulled Ethan in against his will.

It unsettled him.

It fascinated him.

It infuriated him.

That curiosity ran so deep, Ethan hated to admit it even to himself. A part of him wanted nothing more than to dive into it. To strip Tim Dorian down layer by layer until he understood every piece of him—figuratively and literally.

The thought came unbidden, and Ethan shook his head sharply, forcing himself back into the present. No. Not again. Tim had already carved out too much space in his mind, and Ethan despised the hold he had over him.

And now his mother wanted him not only to tolerate Tim but to romance him for political gain? To parade him as some shiny accessory for their family’s ambition?

Hell no. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

He broke the silence with a sharpness that carried every ounce of his defiance.

“We don’t need him, Mother. We’ll do just fine without dragging Tim Dorian into our campaigns.”

For a moment, Madison said nothing. She simply leaned back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other with languid grace. Her painted smile twisted up into a sneer—reckless, deliberate, and sadistically delighted.

"Oh really?" she whispered, her tone low, but laced with challenge.

Ethan held her gaze, but his chest tightened.

Madison tilted her head slightly, studying her son the way a chess master studies a piece that has dared to move without permission. Then, slowly, she asked:

“Tell me, then… what exactly do you have in mind, Ethan?”

Her question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. It wasn’t just a question. It was not a question. It was a test.