Page 4 of Dirty Little Secret

"It’s not something I want to discuss with an audience,” I say carefully, picking my words like navigating a minefield filled with floral landmines and ceramic explosives.

“Oh?” Cilla says, leaning in once more—curiosity now piqued beyond matrimonial prospects.

“Who is she, Magnus?” My mother struggles to maintain the volume of her voice.

“The thing is,” I continue, heat rising in my cheeks as both women hang on my following words. “Cilla is here. You two should continue your previous conversation, and I’ll come back later.”

“Magnus Alfred Larsen, don’t you dare move. Cilla, we’ll speak later. Show yourself out.” My mother points to the door but never takes her eyes off me.

“What’s wrong with her? Why have you been hiding her from me? You know how long I’ve waited for you to fall in love and marry, yet you keep this woman all to yourself? Something’s amiss.” Mother guesses correctly, but it isn’t about what’s wrong with Tessa.

It’s about what’s wrong with me. Am I a fiend for falling for a teenager? There’s no denying I’ve kept the best thing that’s ever happened to me a secret because people will judge me for it.

And no one will judge me as harshly as my mother.

“She’s younger than me, and I suspect you’ll have difficulties accepting the legitimacy of our relationship,” I say, gauging her immediate reaction before continuing.

“Younger than Cilla? Is she in her early thirties? That’s not too scandalous. I suppose there will be some whispers about the age gap, but men who want children typically marry younger. You do still want children—don’t you?” Mother seems more concerned with that than my choice of bride.

“She’s younger than Cilla. Her name is Tessa Mills, and she’s nineteen.” As soon as I speak, I look away and unable to meether gaze head-on. “She’s Conrad Mills’s daughter. You met him a few years ago at your charity gala.”

I can tell by Mother’s eyebrows darting toward the sky that she's preparing a lengthy speech. I brace for impact, reaching for my cooling cup of tea as a mild shield.

“I mean, Magnus, a teenager? Really?” she finally gasps out, as if the age gap is some exotic disease I’ve casually announced I contracted. “What will people say?”

Her pale hand flutters to her chest dramatically, briefly reminding me of a distressed damsel in a black-and-white film. I fight back a grin. Mother has always had a flair for theatrics.

“She’s quite mature for her age.” I try to soften the blow.

My mother arches an eyebrow so high it threatens to merge with her hairline. "Mature? She can't even legally drink, Magnus. "Darling," she gasps, visibly flustering herself into an even greater state, "Nineteen? Do realize that when you were nineteen, she was not even a concept!”

I wince a little. It’s never a good idea to bring in math.

"I understand it sounds… unconventional," I begin, trying to navigate through this verbal minefield. “Tessa's not just any teenager.” I set my teacup down with more force than necessary. It clatters on the saucer, echoing sharply in the quiet room. "Tessa is beyond her years, an old soul, beautiful and brilliant. She’s studying fashion.”

“Unconventional,"my mother scoffs with an eye roll so dramatic it threatens to unhinge her eyelids. "When I was nineteen, I was dancing with dashing young men at balls—not dating men old enough to be my—” She cuts herself off, probably calculating whether it’s more scandalous to finish that sentence or not.

Mom's frown deepens as she considers the situation. "Does her father know about this? Because if you were sneakingaround with my nineteen-year-old daughter, I’d have half a mind to?—"

"Not yet, but he will before the end of the week. I’m committed to being honest with everyone from now forward," I assure her quickly.

"He can’t be too angry with you since he counts on your business.” My mother is visibly struggling to align this new reality with her worldview.

“No doubt Conrad will be angry, but my intentions are honorable.”

For another long moment, there’s silence except for the ticking of the old cuckoo clock on the wall—another relic Mother refuses to part with—before it suddenly springs into action, startling us both as a tiny bird pops out, announcing the hour.

"You’re just like that cuckoo," Mother mutters under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“What was that?” I pretend I didn’t hear her insult.

“Nothing, dear.” My mother finally sits down again and stirs her tea mechanically. “We'll see how it goes then,” she says finally. "But you're bringing her over for dinner next Sunday. I need to meet the enchantress stealing my son’s sense out through his ears.”

“I haven’t lost my senses. I’ve found them. Tessa is my soul mate,” I say, suddenly feeling lighter now that this is out in the open.

“Oh my God, save it, Magnus. She’s nineteen, probably gorgeous, with a tight ass and boobs that defy gravity. Of course, you think she’s sent from heaven. This is a midlife crisis that you’ll probably live to regret. Why couldn’t you buy a sports car like every other man in New York?”

“I’ll never regret Tessa,” I explain with a sheepish smile.

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