Briggs’ POVThe drive back is quiet.I pull into the driveway, the gates sliding open without hesitation. The house comes into view—glass, everything exactly where it should be.I step out of the car, loosening my collar slightly as I walk inside. The moment I enter, I feel the shift. I stop. “…no.”I already know. I walk further in, and there she is. Sitting like she owns the place, which technically—she does. Eleanor, my mother. Elegant as ever, composed and very unannounced.“Llegas tarde, Alejandro,” she says in Spanish, calm, without turning.(You’re late) I exhale once, slowly. “Tienes que dejar de venir sin avisar,” I reply, switching to Spanish without thinking.(You need to stop showing up unannounced) Now she turns, and she’s wearing that look. Sharp, assessing, already reading more than I’ve said.“I brought you food,” she says, like that explains everything.My gaze drops briefly to the counter. Vegetables, meat, wine. She didn’t stop at “food.” She stocked my kitchen
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