Page 2 of Love's Free Will

I loved my condo; it was absolutely my happy place. When I got my first check from The Coven, this was the first thing I bought. The condo was luxurious but not excessive—floor-to-ceiling windows, a sleek white and gold color scheme, and a balcony overlooking the city skyline. It was a girl’s dream, but it still felt like me.

Then my phone rang.

I sighed rolling my eyes after seeing who it was before answering. “Hey, Mama.”

“Do you have time to talk, or are you too busy jet-setting around the country?” My mother’s tone was already edged with judgment.

I ignored the jab. “I’m home. What’s up?”

“Well, I just got off the phone with your sister. She and Brandon are expecting. Can you believe it? My youngest is married, with a baby on the way, and my oldest is… what, exactly?”

I closed my eyes, exhaling through my nose. Here we go.

“I’m successful, Mama. I have a hit tv show that I am a lead actress. I’ve won three Grammys. I’m writing and producing for some of the biggest artists out right now?—”

“But no husband. No stability. Averi, we didn’t send you to the best schools, invest in etiquette classes, and prepare you for high society so you could play around with acting and music like it’s a hobby.”

“It’s not a hobby,” I snapped.

"Oh, really?" She let out a condescending chuckle. "You’re twenty-eight years old, Averi. You have no fiancé, no children, no?—"

"And?!" I cut in, sitting forward, heat rising in my chest. "So because I ain’t barefoot and pregnant like Candace, my life ain't worth shit?"

"Watch your mouth." I rolled my eyes, but she wasn’t done. "Your sister made smart choices. She married a good man, a doctor, mind you. She will be raising her children in a stable, respectable home. Meanwhile, you’re… what? Acting on a tv show and producing rap albums? Hanging around industry men who only see women as disposable?"

That one hit differently.

"Excuse me?"

"Don’t act naive, Averi. I’ve been watching the headlines. First Omari, then that basketball player, then that singer—do you even take yourself seriously?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, my jaw tightening. "Oh, so now my dating life is up for discussion too?"

"It is when you keep playing around instead of thinking about your future."

I let out a humorless laugh, shaking my head. "Mama, my future is fine. I make more in a year than most lawyers make in five. But you’ll never be happy unless I’m a damn Stepford Wife like Candace."

"Why do you always make it seem like I’m the villain for wanting you to have stability? A family? I don’t want you to be alone."

That was a lie.

She didn’t care about me being alone. She cared about appearances. About the St. Claire family name, about what her friends in their country club circles whispered when they found out her oldest daughter was a single actress and songwriter instead of an attorney or surgeon.

She wanted a legacy, a dynasty, not an artist who moved to LA to carve out her own lane.

"Mama, I don’t wanna be you." My voice was quieter now, but firm. "And I damn sure don’t want a marriage like yours."

An eerie silence radiated between us. My heartbeat fast in my chest. I had hit a nerve, I knew I did. She was sensitive when it came to her relationship with my daddy. Because no matter how much my mother wanted to put up a perfect front, we both knew her marriage to my father was not goals.

Dr. Elijah St. Claire was a brilliant neurosurgeon, but as a husband? As a father? Absent as hell.

He let my mother handle everything—the raising, the discipline, the pressure, while he threw himself into his work. And if my mother was hard on me? It was because she had to be. She was preparing me to survive the world alone—just like she had.

I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Look, I’m tired." My voice had softened, but my exhaustion was clear. "Congrats to Candace. I’m happy for her. But stop comparing us. I’ll have a husband when I find one worth my time."

She didn’t respond right away, and I knew she wanted to argue, but I wouldn’t give her the chance as I disconnected our call.

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