"You're going to look absolutely stunning, Madam."
"He's going to see how radiant you are, no doubt about it!"
"Just relax, ma'am. Let us handle everything."
"Thank you..." Willow muttered softly, sitting stiffly as far steadier hands than hers moved deftly through her hair, brushing, pinning, and styling with practiced precision. Her eyes lifted to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her in the grand vanity surrounding her, framed by maids bustling about with fabrics, cosmetics, and accessories. Their voices overlapped with encouragement and advice, meant to reassure her, but she couldn't help feeling out of place.
She was... really overwhelmed at the moment.
Overwhelmed because of the tangle of confusing emotions surging through her. She didn't know what to focus on, what to make of everything happening around her. She knew she needed help to prepare, to make herself presentable for her son, but... she might have underestimated her maids' enthusiasm. She supposed she couldn't blame them; it had been a while since there was anything this significant to prepare for. Not that she ever gave the m a reason to, she admitted shamefully.
Still, more embarrassment flared as she realized how much effort these young women were putting into making her look presentable, some of them barely older than her own children. They chattered like they truly believed their compliments, though Willow wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or patronized.
Willow settled as always into mixture of shame and self-loathing.
She also felt a flicker of anger—not at her maids, of course. Gods bless them; she could never be annoyed at their earnestness. No, her frustration was aimed at him. That overgrown Muppet had the audacity to constantly barge into her room unannounced, start spouting nonsense, and then leave without so much as a backward glance. Does he have no idea how much shit she got from Ohma for all the broken bottles!?
Willow gritted her teeth in annoyance.
"Don't frown, my lady. You'll ruin your makeup," Ohma chastised lightly from the side.
"...Sorry," Willow relented with a soft sigh. Sure, she supposed she owed Jacques some leniency for what he had been doing. Visiting her every day to escort her to the Sun Room. Helping her at the breakfast table. Assisting her in trying to mend what was broken. But damn it, the thought—no, she didn't blush, absolutely not—of what he'd done after that first breakfast made her want to strangle him.
The fact that he was reliable and helpful now only made it worse.
Above all else, above any fleeting feeling of awkwardness or frustration, she felt ecstatic and an almost overwhelming joy bubbling beneath the surface. Today, she would get to sit down and actually speak with Whitley. To have a proper conversation with her son.
The thought made her heart race. Unlocking someone's Aura wasn't just a casual act; it was intimate, requiring trust on the deepest level. The fact that Whitley had agreed to let her perform this sacred rite felt like a lifeline and a chance to rebuild what had been broken between them.
Tolerating Jacques' presence for a date, or even a hundred, was a insignificant price to pay for a moment like this.
Yes, she was happy. Ecstatic, even. But ...loathe as she to admit it, that happiness felt fragile, like a delicate glass ornament hanging by a thread. Because beneath the surface, tangled up in her joy, was doubt. Fear. Shame. Guilt.
Would Whitley even want this? Or was he doing it simply out of obligation? Jacques had told her he would convince Whitley, but she couldn't shake the nagging voice in the back of her mind that whispered: What if he hates you for this? What if he only agreed because of Jacques? What if it's too late?
Her hands clenched tightly around the silk fabric of her dress, her knuckles whitening. She closed her eyes briefly, drawing a slow, steadying breath. She had to push those thoughts away, at least for now. This wasn't about her. It was about Whitley. About what he needed. And if there was even the smallest chance to repair the distance between them, she owed it to him, and to herself, to try.
"Willow?" Ohma asked gently, noticing her stillness.
Willow opened her eyes and offered a small smile. "I think I'm ready."
The woman who had practically raised her paused, studying her carefully. Then, a soft motherly smile broke across her weathered features. "Of course, my lady."
The sound of the doors opening drew Willow's attention immediately. She straightened in her chair, her heart thudding against her chest as a familiar figure stepped into the room. Hopefully, with good news, and not to start his usual nonsense.
Jacques entered without his usual air of confidence. She couldn't help but notice the slight hesitation in his steps that only someone who knew him well might notice. The maids began to rise and bow, but he waved them off with a dismissive hand. "As you were."
A sense of unease began to creep in Willow's stomach.
Hesitantly, the maids, save for Ohma, who remained steadfastly by Willow's side, resumed applying the finishing touches.
Jacques adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he approached, slipping his hands into his pockets and offering what was supposed to be a lopsided smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes, and there was a stiffness to his demeanor that Willow didn't miss. He seemed more out of sorts than usual.
"Willow," Jacques began, his gaze briefly flickering once more to Ohma and the bustling maids before returning to Willow's face. He hesitated, clearly weighing his words, before defaulting to his usual bravado. "You look... radiant, as always."
Willow raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into something that could almost pass for a smirk, masking her nervousness. "If you're trying to butter me up, Jacques, know I have no time for it. Just tell me. Did...Did our son agree?"
He nodded. "Yeah, he did. Whitley's agreed to have you unlock his Aura."
Relief washed over Willow's face, though it was quickly tempered by a flicker of uncertainty. "And… he understands? That this isn't just about his Aura, but…" She gestured vaguely, as though the core of her meaning could somehow be conveyed through the motion.
"That it's about rebuilding what's been broken?" Jacques finished uncharacteristically soft. "Yes. He knows. But don't expect miracles, Willow."
Willow nodded, swallowing hard against the lump forming in her throat. "Time… anything… is something I'm more than willing to give. No matter how long it takes."
Once more Jacques's eyes seemed to wonder, only this time into somewhere distant, then back at her, his smirk returning in full force, though it still seemed a touch forced. "Well, let's not keep him waiting. I doubt Whitley will appreciate us dragging this out."
The maids began to fuss, making last-minute adjustments, but Willow raised her hand gently, signalling them to stop. "It's fine. Thank you." She turned to Jacques, exhaling deeply. "Let's go."
Jacques gave a short nod before turning on his heel, ready to lead the way.
Ohma stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on Willow's shoulder. "You'll do just fine, my lady. He'll see how much you care."
Willow took a deep breath, feeling the reassurance of Ohma's words settle in her chest. She hadn't realized how much she needed to hear them until now. She nodded, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
"Thank you, Ohma," she murmured. She gave the maid a final glance, silently appreciating the kindness.
With one last sweep of the room, Willow stood, smoothing the fabric of her gown with shaky hands. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but she couldn't let that show, not now, not when she was so close. The idea of finally being able to speak with Whitley, to try to reach him after all these years, kept her feet moving toward the door.
Jacques was already halfway down the hallway, striding not with that familiar cocky swagger, but seemingly like a man going to start a fight judging by the tightness in his shoulders and the stiffness in his back. Something was off. He looked like he was trying to hold something back, and the glare of his was so thick, she could practically see it hanging in the air.
'Maybe that stick up his ass was finally loosening.' She tried to dismiss it with a scoff and a joke, but that dread in her only gotten stronger. She quickened her steps. "Wait!"
She caught up to him, her steps matching his, but he barely spared her a glance. No grand gestures, no overly dramatic lines like this morning, and absolutely no ridiculous shit straight out of a tacky and raunchy romance novel for teenage girls.
The "I have something to prove" look on his face, the same one she used to see on the much younger version of him, pissed her off.
"Not that I really care, but... are you okay?" Willow asked, a bit put off by how someone so vain, ad full of himself could manage to look so uncomposed. "You look like you want to stab someone."
"I really really want to."Jacques snorted, a sound that was more exhale than laugh. "Just remembered some shit from the past, stuff I thought I got over. I'm alive, and that's all that matters."
He turned slightly to look at her more directly, his eyes scanning her for a second before he let out a quick breath through his nose. "Someone's pulling all stops," he snorted.
Willow felt that familiar itch of irritation clawing at her, but she swallowed it down, too awkward to start snapping at him. She glanced down at her outfit, taking in the deep blue silk dress she was wearing. The fabric clung to her figure—fuck, she didn't mean for it to slip like that—but still managed to stay modest enough not to scream for attention.
The neckline was simple, the hem just below her knees, and the heels weren't flashy but polished. A tailored shawl, embroidered with subtle silver patterns, rested on her shoulders. She'd even bothered to make her hair look halfway decent—a feat she barely ever cared about. Now, staring at herself, she couldn't help but think it all looked fucking tacky.
What the hell was she doing?
"Is this... too much?" she asked as a not so little uncertainty began crawling at her psych. "Wait, I should probably change into something else."
Jacques gave her a quick once-over, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to...something, shit he was awfully hard to read today, before that damn smirk tugged at his lips. "Nah, you're definitely overdressed, but hey, it works," he shrugged. "Shows you're serious about this whole thing."
"It makes me seem pudgy," she muttered, glaring at the curve that she definitely didn't need.
Jacques gave her an exasperated look like he just wanted the whole thing over with. "It's fine," he said in what was probably supposed to be reassuring. It just came out as whiny.
Willow shot him a half-assed glare, clearly not buying it. "I look like a stuffed duck," she muttered, shaking her head. "Damn it, I'll go change."
She took a few steps away from him, intent on making a run for it and getting out of this dress that was clearly making her feel like an idiot. But before she could take another step, Jacques' hand shot out and grabbed her elbow.
"You look stunning, damn it," he said, low and irritated, eyes narrowing as if he couldn't believe she was making such a fuss over it. His glare darkened, and he leaned in a little closer. "If it'll help convince you, I have no problems bending you over in front of your old man's portrait and fucking your brains out right there to prove it" The tone of his voice was low and dripping with annoyance, but there was a hint of something else underneath it all.
!!?
Willow sputtered, the frustration bubbling over. "B-bastard!" she stammered, her cheeks flushing red. She pulled her arm away from his grip with a snap. "What the hell are you saying, you b-brute!" Her voice squeaked on the last word, and she hated herself a little for it.
"I'll do it." Jacques didn't back down. "Don't try me, bitch."
Willow froze, her face flushing an angry red. She shot him a glare, heat rushing under her skin as the anger spiked. "You fucking—!" Her breath caught in her throat, the words caught between embarrassment and fury.
Jacques held her gaze, not an ounce of hesitation in his posture. He raised an eybrow and tilted his head. What's going to be?
"You're a fucking asshole," Willow muttered under her breath as she turned her back to the hallway leading to her room. She shoved past him, deliberately brushing against his shoulder.
"What a shame," Jacques clicked his tongue in annoyance and said with a sigh. He shook his head, and Willow had to force herself to stop short of smashing the nearest vase over his head. "Ah well, better that we hurry. The kid will definitely blame you for being late, and you really don't want that."
His words drained the anger right out of Willow, replaced by a cold knot of anxiety. "That bad?"
"Worse," Jacques replied, his tone sharp and barely sparing her a glance. His expression was unreadable. "I take back what I said that night. Kid hates you. A lot. It's still possible though."
Willow's stomach dropped, his words sinking deeper than she wanted to admit. "What do you mean?" Her voice came out quieter than usual, the sharpness gone as the twist in her gut grew.
Jacques gave a small shrug, but there was something in his eyes that she couldn't place. "Exactly what I said. Whitley's... complicated. But not hopeless." He hesitated before adding, his tone turning serious. "Just... whatever happens, don't go for sympathy points."
Willow clenched her fists, her jaw tightening. "Sympathy points?" she snapped, her voice rising. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think I'm some idiot, trying to get pity from him?"
Jacques didn't flinch, his gaze cold and steady. "I mean don't play the victim. Don't expect him to soften just because you show up. He's not going to fall for it."
Willow's chest tightened with frustration and disbelief. "You really think I'd do that?" She stepped closer, anger flaring in her eyes. "I don't want him to feel bad for me. I just want him to see I'm sorry, and that I'm trying to make things right."
Jacques nodded in approval."Good, focus on that."
That was the last thing either of them said. The rest of the walk to the training room was spent in uneasy silence. Willow kept her head down, trying—and failing—to steady her thoughts. How to greet Whitley, what to say, how to apologize... The words kept swirling in her head, none of them feeling right.
But when the door to the small training room finally opened, whatever fragile composure she'd managed to piece together shattered instantly.
Her son stood near the far wall, hands behind his back as he stared at a set of armor displayed on a stand. It belonged to one of her great uncles, her mind decided to supply for some reason.
"Kid," Jacques called out casually, his voice breaking the youngest child out of his musings.
Whitley turned toward them. His movements were sharp and deliberate like they were almost rehearsed in front of a mirror. His eyes landed on Jacques first, and the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.
But when his gaze shifted to Willow, the smile vanished, replaced by a cold, distant look that made her chest tighten.
"Father, you're late," Whitley said, his tone clipped and businesslike. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten. Or..." His eyes narrowed slightly, flicking toward Willow. "...been held up."
"My bad, kid," Jacques replied with an easy smile, brushing off the implied accusation as effortlessly as ever. "Had to freshen up a bit. But we're here now, and that's all that matters. Now, come on, greet your mother like the gentleman I know you are."
Jacques gave Willow a gentle nudge forward, but her legs felt as if they'd turned to stone. She couldn't move, her breath catching in her throat.
Jacques glanced at her, his smile faltering for just a split second before he stepped forward, smoothly closing the distance between himself and Whitley. He leaned in slightly toward her. His voice dropped to a low murmur, directed at her. "Come on now, don't make this worse or more awkward than it has to be."
Willow inhaled shakily, forcing herself to take one step, then another. Each movement felt heavier than the last, but she pushed through it. She stopped in front of her son.
Whitley's gaze never wavered, his posture rigid and arms crossed tightly over his chest. Her boy, barely into his teenage years, looked every bit the image of an impassable wall.
"Hu..Hello, son," Her voice wavered and came quieter than she intended. She cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure. "It's good to see you. Thank you for trusting... me with this."
Her words hung in the air, met with silence.
Jacques, ever the mediator, clapped a hand on Whitley's shoulder, breaking the tension. "Look at you, standing there like a statue," he said, his tone light but pointed. "At least say hello. Don't make me look bad, kid."
Whitley's lips pressed into a thin line. "Hello... Mother." He might as well have spat the word.
The sting of his tone hit her harder than she expected, but Willow refused to let it show. She clenched her hands tightly at her sides, forcing herself to stay composed. She had no right to expect anything else, not after everything.
"Right! Great!" Jacques chimed in, a touch too enthusiastic as he clapped his hands together. "Well, there's a start. Now, why don't we get to it? Unlocking your Aura is—"
"Father," Whitley interrupted, his polite smile strained at the edges. "Could I trouble you by giving us a moment? I believe I heard the servants calling for you just now. Perhaps you could check that."
Willow's shoulders sagged ever so slightly. She knew exactly why Whitley wanted Jacques gone, and it wasn't hard to guess what would follow. Her faint hope of a warm reunion had been thoroughly extinguished. Agaihn, she didn't blame him. She had no one to blame but herself.
But she wouldn't back down. Straightening her back, she forced herself to meet her son's gaze. Whatever he had to say, she'd take it. She owed him that much.
"Really, kid?" Jacques raised a brow, clearly unimpressed with Whitley's excuse. "The servants can wait. This is important."
Whitley's smile didn't falter, but the tightness around his eyes spoke volumes. "I insist, Father. Just a moment."
Before Jacques could argue further, Willow interjected. "Actually, I think he's right," she said steadier than she felt. "It did sound urgent."
Whitley's eyes narrowed.
Jacques's fake smile dropped entirely, replaced by an unreadable expression as he turned to her. For a long moment, he studied her.
Are you sure?
I am.
Finally, he nodded. "Fine. I'll see what they want," he said calmly, placing a hand briefly on her shoulder before ruffling Whitley's hair with ease. The gesture seemed to make Whitley smile despite himself, and Willow could not help but smile with him. "I'll be in the garden. Come see me when you've finished."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, leaving mother and son alone.
Jacques shut the door behind him, and they waited until the muffled sound of his footsteps faded as he walked away.
For a moment, the room was utterly silent. Willow stood frozen. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her while she tried to gather her thoughts.
Whitley didn't move, his arms still crossed.
"Well," she began softly, fingers interlocking in nervousness before she straightened them. "I suppose... we should start."
Whitley tilted his head slightly. His brows furrowed in a way that seemed so unfitting on his young face.
"Let's."