“Enough.” The word slices through the room, silencing both women. I barely recognize my own voice. The rage buildinginside me has crystallized into something colder, clearer. A decision.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously reach for it. The number I dial isn’t Star’s. Not yet. It’s James, my finance manager. He answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Cillian? It’s after midnight. What’s going on?”
“I need you to liquidate my position in the family trust,” I say, eyes fixed on my mother’s increasingly pale face. “All of it. Immediately.”
James coughs, suddenly alert. “The Brown Trust? Cillian, that’s your inheritance. Your security. We’d need your mother’s signature on several—”
“No, we don’t. Check the terms. On my thirtieth birthday, my grandfather’s provisions kicked in. I can withdraw unilaterally. I want every penny out by morning.”
My mother steps toward me, hand outstretched as if to physically disconnect the call. “Cillian, stop this nonsense. You’re upset, but this is madness. That trust is your birthright!”
I turn away from her, continuing as if she hasn’t spoken. “Sell my shares in the estate too. And my position in the firm.”
James’s voice rises in pitch. “Your shares in Brown Investments? But sir, that could destabilize the entire—”
“Let it go bankrupt if necessary. I’ll start over.” The words should terrify me. Three generations of wealth and security severed in a single phone call. Instead, each syllable feels like breaking a chain I’ve carried so long I forgot it was there. “I’m cutting every financial tie to this family, effective immediately.”
“This will take time, paperwork—” James stammers.
“Then start now. Call Judge Harrington if you need emergency authorization. Wake him up. Tell him it’s a family emergency.” I hang up before he can raise more objections.
The silence that follows is absolute. My mother stands frozen, her perfect mask finally shattered to reveal naked shockbeneath. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again—the great Mary Brown, speechless for perhaps the first time in her life.
“You wouldn’t,” she finally manages. “Everything we’ve built—”
“You built a prison,” I say simply. “And called it a legacy.”
Her composure fractures further, desperation replacing calculation. “The firm will suffer. People will lose jobs. Is that girl worth destroying everything?”
“Her name is Star.” Each word deliberate, unmovable. “And yes, she is. But this isn’t just about her. It’s about every person you’ve manipulated, threatened, controlled. It’s about Bea’s father. About Bea herself.” I glance at my ex-wife, seeing her clearly perhaps for the first time. “It’s about me.”
My mother’s hands tremble slightly—the only visible sign of the earthquake reshaping her reality. “You’re making a terrible mistake.”
“No,” I say, turning toward the door. “I made a terrible mistake bringing Star here, exposing her to you. I made a terrible mistake letting you control my life for thirty years.”
I pause at the threshold, glancing back at this woman who has sculpted my existence to her specifications since birth. “The only thing I’m not mistaken about is Star. And I’m going to find her.”
Bea steps forward, her movements suddenly free of the hesitation that’s marked her all evening. “The train station,” she says. “That’s where she was headed. But Cillian—” She glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. “The last train left twenty minutes ago. She might still be there, waiting for the morning departure.”
Hope surges through me—not just that I might catch Star, but that there’s still time to undo what my mother has done.
“Thank you,” I say to Bea, meaning it more deeply than those simple words can convey. “For telling the truth. For breaking free.”
She nods once, a small smile touching her lips. “Go,” she says softly. “Find her. Some things are worth burning everything else down for.”
I don’t waste another second on goodbyes or explanations. My mother calls after me as I stride from the room.
My car keys are cold in my palm as I grab my coat from the hall closet. Outside, snow falls in thick curtains, blanketing the driveway in white that glows beneath the mansion’s exterior lights. My footprints will be the only ones leading away from this house tonight—not in retreat, but in pursuit of what matters.
Of who matters.
The train station emerges through curtains of snow. The parking lot is nearly empty, just three cars dusted with fresh powder and a single taxi waiting with its engine running. I slam into the nearest space, not bothering to straighten between the lines. The car door is open before the engine stops completely, cold air rushing in to steal my breath.
My feet sink ankle-deep in fresh snow as I run toward the entrance. Inside, the station is cavernous and nearly empty, high ceilings amplifying the hollow echo of my footsteps against worn marble floors. A sleepy attendant glances up from behind bulletproof glass, then returns to his magazine. An unhoused man curls on a bench near a heating vent, wrapped in layers of coats.
No Star.
