“Yeah,” I mutter. “I figured.”
“Second,” she goes on, levelling me with a look, “you should press charges.”
My head jerks up. “Are you sure? He’s the father of your kids.”
“He’s also the man who stole my daughter’s piggy bank,” she says, voice blunt. “Besides, a man in prison will have a harder time suing me for custody than a rich one.”
I blink at her, thrown by the bluntness of it.
“I was wondering why he disappeared,” she adds, shaking her head slowly, like puzzle pieces are finally clicking into place.
My mouth falls open. “Are you sure?”
She rolls her eyes. “What, do you want to pay the money instead?”
The question throws me off. She’s not being cruel, just brutally practical. And the truth is, no, I can’t pay it. I’ve been pretending like I might somehow find a way, but I can’t.
Her eyes soften just a fraction. “Matthew he’s done worse. Don’t you dare protect him at the cost of your future.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “I didn’t think this would be… so easy.” And I hadn’t, I expected her to get mad, at Zeke, at me. Even expected her to threaten her relationship with Brooke if I went through with it. I definitely didn’t expect this.
Stella’s lips twitch into something between a tired smile and a grimace. “It’s not easy. I gave up on my ex a long time ago and you just gave me the way to get him out of my kids’ life for good. But my sister? You lied to her, and worse, you went behind her back.”
“I thought I knew better,” I say quietly, the words scraping out of me like splinters.
Her expression doesn’t soften. “A lot of people think they know better than Brooke,” she replies, voice low but steady. “She told me you were better than that.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Just air. Guilt claws up my throat, thick and hot. I screwed up. Bad. And then I lied to cover it up. And then I lied again. One small betrayal turning into a chain that’s wrapped around both of us now.
I press my palms into my knees, fingers curling tight. “What do I do now?”
Stella lets out a sharp exhale, shaking her head slowly. “The only thing you can do is tell her,” she says. “And hope to hell she forgives you.”
With that, I stand, mumble a soft “thanks,” and head for the door. The cold air outside hits me like a smack against the face. My hands shake as I slide behind the wheel of Mom’s car. The drive back feels shorter somehow, like the universe is dragging me straight toward the reckoning I’ve been dodging.
I should’ve gone back to Mom’s. I should’ve stalled. But I don’t. My foot stays on the gas. If I stop now, I’ll never tell her.
When I turn onto our block, my chest is tight. I sit in the car for a few seconds, forehead pressed against the leather, just breathing. Then I grab my keys and force myself out.
The apartment door feels heavier than it should. My hand trembles slightly as I push it open.
Brooke’s on the couch, back hunched. She turns toward me at the sound of the door.
“Brooke,” I manage, my voice already breaking.
My heart slams against my ribs. I urge my feet to move, to go to her, to kneel, to tell her everything before the words rot inside me.
But before I can take a single step, a voice floats out from the kitchen.
“Matthew.”
I freeze.
She steps out of the shadows like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. My mom. Arms folded, chin lifted. There’s a look in her eyes I know too well, sharp, gleaming, almost triumphant.
My stomach twists.
I turn back to Brooke. Her eyes are nothing like my mother’s. They’re pissed. Betrayal bleeds through every inch of her face.
