“Winter?! Sweetheart, are you okay?”
Winter’s eyes flutter open at her mother’s voice, the familiar texture of the couch beneath her grounding her in the present moment.
The ceiling above seems to waver slightly, as if she is underwater, and she can’t help but groan at the sharp ache pulsing behind her eyes.
Blinking slowly, she gradually focuses on her mother’s anxious face hovering above.
Memories trickle back in fragments—her mother’s announcement about being engaged to a man named Marcus.
She remembers him appearing in their living room and introducing himself with that smooth, practiced voice, but everything after that feels blurry.
“What happened?” Winter asks, her voice weak and scratchy.
“You fainted,” Sarah says softly, brushing Winter’s hair back with trembling fingers and a worried look.
“Are you alright, honey? You gave me such a scare.”
Winter nods slowly, though the movement makes her head swim.
Her gaze drifts past her mother to see Marcus standing at the foot of the couch, observing her intently.
His dark eyes flicker over her face with an intensity that feels almost clinical.
Something about the way he watches her reminds her of a scientist studying a specimen under glass.
“Marcus, could you give us a moment?” Sarah asks gently, her tone carrying a subtle edge of insistence.
“Of course,” he replies, though he doesn’t move an inch.
Winter’s eyes meet his for a moment, and an unsettling sensation prickles at the back of her mind—hazy images and indistinct shapes she can’t quite place, like shadows dancing just beyond her peripheral vision.
She rubs her eyes, trying to shake off the disorienting feeling, and becomes suddenly aware of Marcus’s hand resting lightly on her leg.
The warmth of his palm through her jeans feels invasive, wrong.
“Don’t touch me,” Winter murmurs, pulling her leg back instinctively, her muscles tensing.
Marcus withdraws his hand without hurry, a small, unreadable smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“I was just checking if your temperature had gone down.”
Sarah shoots him a quick look—whether because of his words or his failure to excuse himself, Winter can’t tell.
Turning back to Winter, Sarah’s expression softens with maternal concern.
“You’ve had episodes like this before, right?”
Winter nods, though her throat feels tight.
This doesn’t feel like her usual headaches, but she isn’t in the mood to explain the difference.
Her mother hasn’t noticed the recent changes in frequency and intensity, or perhaps hasn’t wanted to acknowledge them.
Either possibility stings.
“Does this happen often?” Marcus asks, his tone casual, though his gaze seems to scrutinize her closely, cataloging every detail of her response.
“Not really,” Sarah answers quickly, offering Winter a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“It’s been better lately, hasn’t it, Winter?”
Winter nods again, keeping her growing discomfort to herself.
Every instinct she possesses tells her not to reveal too much about her migraines to Marcus, though she can’t articulate why.
Marcus narrows his eyes slightly, as if he doesn’t quite believe them, but he doesn’t press further.
After a measured pause, he speaks.
“Alright. I’ll have my driver bring something for the pain.”
“I have my own painkillers,” Winter replies quickly, beginning to sit up despite the dizziness that threatens to pull her back down.
“In my room.”
Marcus shakes his head, already pulling out his phone with practiced efficiency.
“No need. I’ll get you something effective from a reputable pharmacy. It’ll work quickly—much better than over-the-counter options.”
Winter opens her mouth to protest, but Sarah interjects.
“Let him, Winter.” She places a gentle hand on Winter’s shoulder.
“He’s just trying to help. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. He cares about us, sweetheart. Let him take care of you.”
Winter feels her mother’s words pressing on her like a physical weight, and though something deep inside her resists Marcus with every fiber of her being, she relents.
Fighting seems pointless when her mother looks at her with such pleading hope.
“Okay, fine.”
Satisfied, Marcus steps away, his fingers moving swiftly across his phone screen.
“The driver will bring food and drinks too,” he says, casting a quick look at Sarah that seems to carry unspoken meaning.
Winter shifts uncomfortably against the couch cushions.
“We don’t need all that—”
Marcus cuts her off with a slight smile that doesn’t warm his eyes.
“It’s no trouble. Just rest.”
Sarah offers Winter a reassuring pat on her hand before heading to the kitchen.
“I’ll get you some water, sweetheart.”
As soon as her mother leaves the room, Marcus moves closer, claiming the space Sarah had vacated.
His presence feels more imposing without her mother as a buffer.
“So, Winter,” he begins, his voice low and measured, “your mother’s told me a lot about you. I’ve been eager to meet you.”
Winter frowns, her headache still throbbing as she tries to gauge his tone and intention.
“Why would you be eager to meet me?”
“Because we’re about to be family,” he says smoothly, the words rehearsed.
“And I care about your mother. It’s important that we all get along, don’t you think?”
Winter wonders if she is overreacting, if her judgment is clouded by the shock of the day.
Perhaps Marcus isn’t as bad as he seems.
Maybe her sense of unease is just the result of today’s overwhelming events colliding with her migraine.
He hasn’t done anything overtly wrong, after all—he is offering help, spending money on her comfort, and her mother seems genuinely happy with him.
Isn’t that what matters?
Before she can formulate a response, the doorbell rings.
Marcus straightens, glancing toward the door with satisfaction.
“That’ll be the driver.”
Sarah returns with a glass of water just as Marcus accepts a brown paper bag filled with takeout containers and a small bottle of painkillers from someone Winter can’t see.
The savory aroma of the food fills the room—garlic, herbs, something rich and expensive-smelling that makes her realize how empty her stomach feels.
Sarah smiles gratefully, dragging the coffee table closer to Winter and spreading the containers in front of her with the care of someone arranging a feast.
“Here,” she says, opening one of the containers to reveal what looks like gourmet pasta.
“Eat something before you take the pills.”
Winter reaches for the painkillers, but before her fingers can close around the bottle, Marcus gently takes her hand.
His grip is firm but not painful.
“Your mom’s right. Eat first. It’s better that way—the medication can be harsh on an empty stomach.”
With a sigh of resignation, Winter picks up a spoon, taking a few reluctant bites.
The food is delicious, but it sits heavy in her stomach, mixing uneasily with her anxiety.
After a few mouthfuls, she grabs the bottle, shakes out two pills, and washes them down with water.
Her headache begins to ease almost immediately—perhaps too quickly—but a strange feeling of imbalance lingers, as if the ground beneath her has tilted slightly.
She manages a polite smile, the expression feeling foreign on her face.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“Are you feeling better?” Marcus asks, his gaze still fixed on her with that unsettling intensity.
Winter nods, though she isn’t entirely sure it is true.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Good,” Sarah says with visible relief, sitting beside her and taking her hand.
“There’s something we need to discuss, sweetheart.”
Winter tenses, her brief moment of calm evaporating.
She glances between her mother and Marcus, noting how they seem to exchange a look of understanding.
“What is it?”
Sarah takes a deep breath, squeezing Winter’s hand.
“To get married, I need your consent. Your official, signed approval.”
Winter’s heart sinks like a stone.
She’d read about this law before during a civics class; for her mother to remarry within five years of her father’s passing, she needs Winter’s formal approval.
The archaic regulation had seemed abstract then, irrelevant to her life.
Now it feels like a trap closing around her.
The thought makes her profoundly uneasy.
“And if I don’t sign?” she asks, looking between them, searching their faces for any hint of flexibility.
Marcus’s gaze hardens ever so slightly, a flash of something cold crossing his features.
“Then we can’t move forward. It’s a bit archaic, but it’s the law.”
Sarah reaches for her hand with both of hers now, her grip almost desperate.
“Please, Winter. I really want this. I need your support. After everything we’ve been through, don’t I deserve to be happy again?”
Winter looks between her mother’s pleading face and Marcus’s steely gaze, feeling cornered and manipulated.
She knows her mother’s happiness is wrapped up in this decision, but the pressure to sign leaves her feeling trapped, as if the walls of their small living room are closing in.
What was she to do now?