CHAPTER 82: CALL FROM MOM

Nicholas stared at his mother’s name flashing across his screen again, thumb hovering over the answer button. He’d ignored the last three calls, but avoiding her forever was impossible.

They didn’t fight often—not really. Arguments, yes. Sharp words thrown in moments of frustration. But deep down, his mother had always been his person. The only one in that polished, ruthless family who ever saw him for himself.

Finally, he sighed and answered, bracing for the storm.

"Mum."

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and then came her voice—not sharp or cutting, but soft, almost tired.

"Nicholas."

He closed his eyes at the sound. It wasn’t fury that met him—it was worry. And that made it worse somehow.

"I was going to call," he said quietly.

"I know," she replied, equally soft. "I know you, darling."

The old endearment, darling

, tugged something painful in his chest. It was how she used to speak to him when he was little and couldn’t sleep after one of Father’s shouting fits. Or when he scraped his knees climbing trees on the Carter estate, refusing to cry even as blood ran down his shin.

It didn’t soften what was coming next.

"I saw the news," she added gently, carefully. "Everyone has."

He moved to the edge of his desk, bracing his hands on the wood like it might anchor him. "Yeah."

His mother let out a long breath on the other end, and he could picture her perfectly—curled in her reading chair, cup of tea forgotten beside her, one hand absently twisting her rings when she was anxious.

"It’s not the girl, Nicholas," she said finally. "I don’t care about the fact that you’ve fallen for someone. I—" Her voice caught slightly, and she cleared her throat. "I want you to be happy. You know that."

His lips pressed into a hard line, the knot in his throat tightening.

"But?"

"But you’ve started a war, sweetheart. And I don’t think you realize how far they’ll go."

"I don’t care what they’ll do," he ground out. "They’ve never liked what I’ve done, who I’ve been, who I’ve loved. This isn’t new."

"It’s different this time," she whispered. "Not because of her, but because of who they expected you to be. You know how it works. These people don’t care about your happiness. They care about alliances. Appearances. Money. You’ve embarrassed your father publicly."

"Good," he bit out before he could stop himself.

That earned him a soft, breathy laugh. "God help me, sometimes you’re more like me than him. You always were."

The ache that lived behind his ribs softened just a little at that. His mother—the only softness in a family of sharks and knives.

"I’m sorry," he finally admitted, quieter. "Not for loving her. But for putting you in the middle of this."

There it was—that rare crack in her voice, that moment when she sounded more like the girl she used to be before marrying into a family like theirs. "I’ve always been in the middle. That’s what mothers are for, isn’t it? Between fathers and sons. Between expectations and rebellion."

Silence hummed between them for a moment, more painful than shouting could’ve been.

Nicholas closed his eyes. "I didn’t want to hide her from you."

"I know," she answered softly. "That’s why I’m calling. Not to yell at you. Not to shame you. I need to understand. Who is she, Nicholas? This girl you’re willing to go to war for?"

He opened his mouth—but how could he explain Ella? How could he explain the way she looked at him like he was human, not a headline or a strategy or a surname? How could he put into words the way she made him feel seen—like not just a Carter, not just a future CEO, but him?

"She’s..." His throat worked. "She’s good, Mum. She’s kind. And she makes me feel like I’m not...broken."

Her breath hitched.

"You were never broken," she whispered fiercely. "You just... you learned to build armor younger than most boys. You’re your father’s son, yes—but you’re mine, too."

That nearly undid him.

For a second, the sharp, unmovable man that Nicholas Carter had become faltered, shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of it all.

"I don’t want to lose you over this," he admitted, voice rough now. "If I lose everyone else—fine. I’ve survived that before. But not you."

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, broken and soft. "You’ve never lost me."

"But I’m going to lose everything else," he said hollowly. "The company, the inheritance. Father’s already lining up lawyers, I can feel it."

"He can have his money," she snapped suddenly, fierceness breaking through the velvet. "I don’t give a damn about the family name anymore, not if it means watching you miserable for the rest of your life."

He blinked, stunned. His mother had played the dutiful wife, the perfect hostess for decades. To hear her like this?

"You deserve love, Nicholas," she added, gentler again. "Real love. If this girl gives you that... don’t you dare let him scare you out of it."

Silence stretched between them.

"I’m scared for her," Nicholas admitted finally. "Ella didn’t ask for this. She didn’t ask to be dragged into media wars and inheritance scandals."

"Then protect her," his mother said simply, like it was obvious. "You’ve always been good at protecting what you love. Start with her."

A lump rose in his throat. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him.

"I’ll come by soon," he said hoarsely. "Introduce you properly. When the dust settles. I know you will love her."

"I’d like that," she whispered. "You know I’ll love anyone who makes my boy happy."

For the first time all week, Nicholas smiled.

He hung up, sliding the phone down on his desk like a weight had shifted off his chest. The war with his father was coming.

But he wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

And God help anyone who tried to come for what was his.