Chapter 2: The Daughter's Approval
The vinyl booth squeaked under Demi as she slid into the seat opposite Mia. The diner smelled of old coffee, frying bacon, and faintly, of pine cleaner. Outside the rain-streaked window, neon signs blurred into watery smears of color. Mia pushed the laminated menu aside, untouched. Her fingers traced the slightly sticky red and white checked tablecloth.
"So," Demi said, plucking a straw wrapper from its dispenser and immediately twisting it into a tight spiral. "This 'thing' you texted about? Sounded cryptic. Did Chloe finally convince you to skydive? Because honestly, Mom, I think your knees might explode."
Mia managed a weak smile. "Nothing quite so airborne." She took a breath, the air thick with grease and hesitation. "Remember Chloe’s… pictures? The ones she had taken?"
Demi snorted, popping the spiral apart. "You mean the giant framed ones in her living room that basically scream 'look at my ass'? Yeah. Hard to miss." Her gaze sharpened, landing fully on Mia. "Wait. No. She didn't…?"
"Not exactly." Mia’s knuckles were white where they rested on the tabletop. "She… gave me a gift certificate. For something similar. At that studio she went to. Lumière."
Demi’s eyes widened. "For you? Alone?" A slow, incredulous smile spread across her face, equal parts shock and disbelief. "Seriously? You? Boudoir? Mom, that’s… wow." She let out a short, breathy laugh. "Okay. Bold. Unexpected. Chloe-level chaos." She leaned back, eyeing Mia with fresh appraisal. "Actually… kind of awesome? Are you gonna do it? Wear something scandalous? Like… lace? Or… leather?" She waggled her eyebrows.
Mia felt heat flood her face. "It’s… it’s a bit more complicated."
Demi leaned forward again, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Oh? How complicated? Does it involve whips? Please say whips." Her grin was pure, unadulterated mischief.
"No whips!" Mia hissed, glancing around, though the nearest occupied booth was several feet away, the murmur of other conversations a low drone. "Leo… the photographer… had a consultation yesterday."
Demi’s eyes flickered with interest. "Leo, huh? What’s he like? Hot artsy type? Or creepy trench coat guy?"
"He’s… professional. Nice," Mia said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. She pulled a stack of fabric swatches Leo had left from her oversized tote bag. Silks, velvets, laces in deep jewel tones and soft creams spilled onto the checked vinyl. "He gave me these. For ideas."
Demi immediately reached out, her fingers brushing over the textures. "Ooh. This emerald green is fire." She held up a swatch of rich, shimmering silk against her own cheek. "Suits me. Obviously." She picked up a piece of deep plum velvet. "This one’s you, Mom. Rich. Classic." She paused, her gaze shifting back to Mia, sharper now. "You said complicated. Spill."
Mia took a deep breath, the scent of coffee and bacon suddenly overwhelming. "The gift Chloe gave me… it wasn’t for just me." The words felt heavy, awkward. "It was for… a group session."
Demi’s brow furrowed. "Group? Like… you and Chloe? Doing… what? Matching negligees? That’s kinda weird, even for her."
"Not Chloe." Mia met her daughter’s eyes. "Me. And you. And Ethan."
The silence that followed was thick, punctuated only by a distant clatter of plates from the kitchen. Demi stared at Mia. Her expression shifted from confusion to dawning, wide-eyed comprehension. She dropped the velvet swatch.
"Wait." Her voice was low, devoid of its usual playful edge. "Hold up. You, me, and Ethan? All together? In… that kind of shoot?" Her gaze darted to the sensual fabrics spread on the table, then back to Mia’s face, searching for a punchline.
Mia nodded, her throat tight. "Leo called it a 'Triptych'. Like an art piece with three panels. He said it’s… stylized. High-fashion editorial style. Not… not literal intimacy. Think more… Kardashians posing together. Fake intimacy for the camera. Arms draped, coordinated looks, that sort of thing." She rushed the explanation, parroting Leo’s words, trying to make it sound normal, artistic, acceptable.
Demi didn’t speak. She leaned back slowly against the squeaky vinyl, her gaze fixed on the rain outside. Mia could practically see the gears turning. The initial shock seemed to recede, replaced by something else. A slow, calculating spark ignited in Demi’s dark eyes. A corner of her mouth began to twitch. Then it bloomed into a full, wicked grin.
"Oh. My. God." Demi breathed the words, leaning forward again, her elbows on the table, eyes locked onto Mia’s with conspiratorial glee. "You’re telling me… Chloe paid… for the three of us… to get all glammed up… and pose together… looking…" she paused, savoring the word, "...hot?"
Mia nodded again, a flicker of relief mingling with apprehension at Demi’s sudden intensity.
Demi’s grin widened, sharp and mischievous. "And Ethan… Mr. Perfect… Mr. Judgmental Gym Rat… has to do it too?" She let out a low, delighted chuckle. "He has to stand there, probably half-naked or in some ridiculous silk robe, posing with his mom and his little sister?"
Mia opened her mouth, about to clarify logistics, about Leo’s mood boards, about the artistic vision, but Demi cut her off, her voice dropping to a thrilled whisper.
"Mom. This isn't complicated. This is genius." She snatched up the emerald silk swatch again, rubbing it between her fingers. "Think about it. We get to look absolutely amazing. We get professionally lit and photographed looking like we just stepped out of Vogue. And best of all," her eyes gleamed with unholy amusement, "we get to watch Ethan squirm. For hours. Because you know he will. He’ll be mortified. Absolutely dying inside. But he won’t say no." She leaned even closer, her smirk infectious despite Mia’s lingering nerves. "Because it’s you asking. And he’d climb Everest in flip-flops if you asked him to, even if he bitches the whole way."
She tapped the silk swatch on the table. "Where do I sign? Seriously. When is it? What do I wear? Do I get professional hair and makeup?" Her enthusiasm was palpable, a stark contrast to Mia’s careful anxiety. It was infectious, reckless, and entirely focused on the glorious discomfort of her older brother.
Mia felt a wave of dizziness. Demi wasn't horrified. She wasn't judging. She was in. Excited, even. The terrifying prospect suddenly seemed… manageable. Maybe even… fun? A shared secret, a shared power play against Ethan's stoicism. The image Demi painted – Ethan, muscle-bound and awkward, enduring the photographer's direction while she and Demi, draped in luxury, enjoyed the spectacle – was undeniably appealing. It wasn't about reclaiming the past, not exactly. It was about claiming a moment, absurd and audacious, together.
Demi snatched a napkin and the pen Mia used to circle items on the untouched menu. "Seriously, Mom. Dates. I need dates. My retail schedule is brutal, but I'll swap shifts. This is priority." She waved the pen. "And we need to strategize Ethan. How do we break it to him? Should we do it here? With witnesses?" Her eyes danced with devious delight. "Or maybe ambush him at the hotel? Catch him mid-protein shake?"
Mia watched her daughter, this vibrant, sharp-edged young woman suddenly fully engaged in her mother's bizarre gamble. The fear didn't vanish, but it receded, replaced by a burgeoning sense of shared adventure, laced with the undeniable thrill of anticipating Ethan’s inevitable, glorious meltdown. The scent of coffee and rain and Demi’s cheap, fruity perfume filled the booth. For the first time since walking into Lumière, Mia felt a spark ignite, not just of nervous energy, but of something perilously close to anticipation. Demi was right. This was going to be interesting.
Demi leaned back, a triumphant smirk settling on her face. She twirled the stolen pen. "Oh, this is going to be epic," she declared, her voice rich with relish. "I cannot wait to see Ethan’s face."
Mia watched her daughter, the spark of shared mischief warming her own apprehension. Yet, a familiar knot tightened in her stomach. "Okay," Mia breathed, pushing her untouched coffee cup away. "But... how? How do we actually tell him?" Her voice dropped, hesitant. "He'll think it's... inappropriate. Weird." Images flashed: Ethan’s stern brow furrowing, his protective instincts flaring, his inevitable lecture about propriety and Mom’s dignity. "He puts me on this pedestal, Demi. The perfect, untouchable mother. This... shatters that." She traced a scratch on the laminate tabletop, feeling suddenly exposed.
Demi snorted, dismissing the worry with a flick of her wrist. "Oh please. He puts everyone on a pedestal and then judges them for wobbling." She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with strategic certainty. "We don't tell him the whole truth. Not yet." She tapped the pen decisively on the napkin. "We ambush him. At the studio."
Mia blinked. "Ambush?"
"Exactly!" Demi’s grin was predatory. "We invite him directly to Lumière. Tomorrow. Say..." She paused, crafting the lie effortlessly. "Say Chloe gifted you this boudoir session. A confidence boost, whatever. And you're nervous. Really nervous." She mimicked Mia’s hesitant tone perfectly. "You need your cheer squad there. Your kids. For moral support." She leaned back, satisfied. "He'll come running. With bells on. Protective big brother mode activated."
Mia pictured it: Ethan arriving, expecting to hold her purse and offer awkward encouragement. The plush velvet, the warm sandalwood scent, Leo’s calm presence. The sheer unexpectedness of it all. "He'll be trapped," she murmured, a flicker of understanding dawning. "Cornered in that intimate space."
"Bingo," Demi confirmed, popping a stray fry into her mouth. "He won't make a scene in front of Leo. He’d hate looking unreasonable. Or worse, unsupportive." She chewed thoughtfully. "He’ll say yes. Immediately. Because it’s you asking. Because he thinks he needs to protect your honor from... well, from yourself, probably." She wiped her fingers. "Honor-bound duty. His fatal flaw. Works every time."
The plan was audacious, manipulative even. Mia felt a prickle of guilt, quickly smothered by the sheer practicality of it. Demi was right. Ethan wouldn't refuse her face-to-face, especially framed as her needing him. The studio itself would disarm him. "Okay," Mia said again, firmer this time. The knot loosened, replaced by a thrum of nervous energy. "Tomorrow. We do it."