"You will call me Mom now," Annabelle said, all syrup and spotlight, smiling into the bank of lenses as if the cameras could swallow the whole room and keep only her light. Riley's hand moved before she could think. The slap landed like a verdict. It cracked the air. Flashbulbs answered, bright and hungry. The photographer froze. Someone laughed—too high, a nervous sound. Annabelle's smile didn't drop. It curdled for a half-second in the eyes, then glued back into place like a perfected prop. "Riley—" Dawson's voice was a rope trying to pull something loose. He stepped in between them, hands big, rough with work but steady. "Enough." Annabelle tilted her head, palms up, theatrical innocence. "We wanted a family photo," she said, voice silk. "I asked—she refused. I was only—" Her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly. Cameras didn't miss it. The tabloid crew at the edge of the room leaned forward, already filing lines to the editor. Riley let the heat flare across her knuckles. She didn't cry. She didn't yell. She put both palms on Annabelle's cheek, slow, like she was steadying a glass. "Call you Mom," she repeated, low. "Right now." Annabelle's smile widened. "Say it for me. For the cameras. For your future." Riley's eyes scanned the room: the marble mantel with its family portraits, the ornate lamps, the predictable placement of the press pack where they'd been invited as if their presence