“No, Winter,” Sarah replies quickly, reaching out to take her daughter’s hand.
Her fingers tremble slightly.
Winter pulls her hand away as if burned, making Sarah’s face fall.
The hurt in her mother’s eyes is unmistakable.
“It wasn’t like that. Marcus and I were just friends then. We didn’t start seeing each other until later, after your father passed. You have to believe me.”
Winter can’t ignore the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at her.
It burrows deeper with each passing second, settling like lead in her stomach.
Her father had been sick in the weeks before he died—so weak he could barely lift his head from the pillow.
When had her mother even had the time to make a new friend, especially one from the upper class?
The whole thing feels…
wrong.
“How did you even meet him?” she asks, avoiding using Marcus’s name—it only makes her headache worse, as if speaking it aloud gives him more power over her life.
Sarah’s fingers twitch slightly, a nervous habit Winter recognizes from childhood.
“It was through work. He was consulting with the hospital where your father was receiving treatment, and we ran into each other a few times. We didn’t connect immediately, but after your father passed, he… reached out.”
Her voice softens on those last words, and a faint blush colors her cheeks.
“So you became fast friends,” Winter comments flatly, unable to keep the edge from her tone.
Sarah sighs, sensing her daughter’s frustration radiating across the small space between them.
“I know this is a lot to take in, Win. But I haven’t felt this way in a long time—not since your father…” Her voice trails off as she reaches for Winter’s hand again, this time holding it firmly, desperately.
“I need you to understand that this isn’t just about me. It’s about us. Marcus is from the upper class. If I marry him, you’ll be considered upper class too. You’ll have access to better schools, better opportunities. You could become the scientist you’ve always wanted to be, like your father.”
Winter winces slightly.
Her mother hasn’t noticed her discomfort, and that stings a bit.
It always does.
Her dad had been the one who always understood her headaches and premonitions, helping her through them with cool compresses and quiet understanding.
Though her mom knows about it, she never seems to catch on when it is happening—too absorbed in her own world to notice the warning signs.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Winter focuses on her mother’s words.
Everything Sarah is saying is tempting.
Dangerously so.
If Sarah marries an upper-class man, Winter will have the chance to escape the bullying, the financial strain, and the stifling life she is living now.
No more secondhand uniforms.
No more whispered insults in the hallways.
No more watching her mother work double shifts just to keep the lights on.
But at what cost?
What price will they pay for this sudden elevation?
“I don’t know, Mom. This is… a lot to process,” she finally says, choosing her words carefully.
She doesn’t want to hurt her mother, but she needs pain relief and a moment to clear her mind.
The migraine is building, threatening to consume her entirely.
Sarah’s eyes soften, her grip tightening on Winter’s arm.
There is a pleading quality to her expression now, something almost desperate.
“I understand that this is hard for you, sweetheart,” she says gently.
“But you have to know—I want this very much. I deserve happiness too, Win. But I can’t do this without you. You know the law.”
Winter takes a deep breath, trying to find her footing amidst her conflicting emotions.
They swirl inside her like a storm—resentment, guilt, hope, fear.
She knows the law her mom is talking about.
The new SWG law also states that if a widower or a divorcee has a child or children above sixteen, but wants to remarry, their marriage must be approved by the child or children, which means her mom will need signed approval from her to go on with this marriage.
The government’s way of ensuring “family harmony,” they claim.
In reality, it is just another mechanism of control.
Winter knows her mom deserves happiness.
The loneliness has carved hollows beneath her eyes, stolen the lightness from her laugh.
And she doesn’t want her to lose this chance over her reluctance, over a headache and a bad feeling she can’t even properly explain.
Maybe it is just the stress of the day or her headache clouding her judgment, Winter reasons, grasping for rational explanations.
Maybe if she meets the man, she’ll actually like him.
Maybe her instincts are wrong this time.
She sighs, the sound heavy with resignation.
“Okay, Mom,” she finally says.
“I’ll try to accept this. But I need a few days to process everything.”
Sarah’s face lights up with relief, the tension draining from her shoulders.
But there is something in her eyes that Winter can’t quite read—a flicker of something that might be guilt, or perhaps triumph.
Before she can analyze it further, a creak down the hall catches her attention.
The sound is deliberate, unhurried.
She turns and freezes as a figure emerges from her mother’s bedroom.
A man in a sleek, tailored black suit walks toward them, his movements predatory in their confidence.
His gaze lands on Winter when he is within a few feet, studying her with an intensity that makes her skin crawl.
An icy, unnerving smile curls at the edges of his lips—the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes.
“Winter,” Sarah says, drawing Winter’s gaze back.
Her mother’s face has paled with guilt, the color draining away as if someone had pulled a plug.
“I was going to tell you… this is Marcus.”
The sharp pain behind Winter’s eyes explodes into a full-blown migraine.
Her vision blurs, and the room tilts as the pain overwhelms her senses.
She tries to stand, to flee, to do anything but remain in this man’s presence, but her legs give way beneath her.
The last thing she registers is the sound of her mother’s voice, distant and distorted, calling her name.
Then everything goes dark.