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The call came late. Monet sat curled in her wingback chair, knees drawn up, her phone resting on the table next to a half-finished espresso. Her eyes were fixed on her laptop screen, frozen on a photo from the Met Benefit—Callum and Adelaide, side by side, her laugh caught mid-motion, his hand at her waist.
The phone buzzed.
Camille.
Monet exhaled sharply and picked it up.
"Mother."
"You need to stop sulking."
"Nice to hear from you too."
A beat. Then Camille's voice softened. "Isabella's here. We want to talk."
"About Adelaide?"
"About you."
The line crackled before another voice joined. Isabella's.
"Monet, darling... you're not fooling anyone."
Monet tensed. "I'm not trying to—"
"You're spiraling. Watching her every move from a distance like some Victorian ghost. That's not love, baby. That's self-punishment."
Camille cut in, voice firm. "We're not saying you two don't belong together. We're saying you're not ready. Not like this."
"Watching her with Callum—" Monet started, her voice catching. "It's like... watching someone else live my life."
"Because you gave it up," Camille said, not unkindly. "You chose control over connection. Reputation over reality."
"And now you're regretting it," Isabella added. "But regret doesn't earn her back. Growth does."
Monet swallowed hard. "What if I've already lost her?"
"Then you learn from it," Camille said. "And you come back stronger. Not louder. Not more manipulative. But honest."
Monet stayed quiet, her throat tight.
Isabella's voice was gentle now. "We see the way you look at her. And the way she still looks back when she thinks no one's watching. But she's choosing herself right now. You need to do the same."
Camille paused, then added, "You don't get to be her partner until you figure out who you are when you're not trying to win."
Monet finally nodded, tears silently slipping down her cheeks.
"Okay," she whispered.
Camille's voice, this time, was soft.
"Okay."
----
Adelaide sat on a bench in the shade, Callum beside her with his camera hanging loose around his neck. The two of them had just finished co-hosting a community art project for refugee youth. Her curls were pulled into a soft bun, paint flecks dotting her arms. She looked happy. Not "vacation with Monet" happy—something quieter, something freer.
