Guilt.
It’s the one thing she doesn’t bother hiding.
“I—Adeline… what—” her voice catches. She doesn’t finish the sentence.
I offer her a soft smile. It barely lasts. “I just came to get my stuff.”
She’s still staring. Her eyes don’t move from my face, lingering on the side of it. The part that still hasn’t fully healed.
The cuts are fading now, but they’re still there. Still visible enough to say something happened, even if no one wants to ask what.
“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks,” I say quickly, brushing my hair behind my ear, even though it doesn’t actually cover anything.
Sam swallows, hard. But she doesn’t speak. She just stands there.
And I suddenly feel more exhausted than I’ve felt in days.
THIRTY-ONE
“Addie, I’m so sorry.”
Sam’s voice barely gets the words out. And for a second, I feel it. That familiar sting behind my eyes, the one I’ve spent days learning how to swallow before it turns into something visible. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and push it back.
“Are you?” I say quietly. Honestly.
Sam flinches. Visibly. In fact, her whole face twists like I’ve just slapped her.
“Of course I am!” she yells, and her voice cracks with the effort of it. “I didn’t mean for this to happen…”
I look away. Past her at the kitchen and notice the chairs are different. Even the broken one is gone. And the table—bigger, smoother, newer.
“Christian?” I ask, stepping forward a little.
Sam nods, voice quieter now as she looks at me. “And Kai.”
I stop. My eyebrows pull together before I can stop them. “What?”
Kai? Helping them? That doesn’t line up with anything he’s said—or done—over the past few weeks. He’s spent more time warning meawayfrom this house.
It makes no sense.
Sam rubs her arm, guilt still written all over her. “Look, Addie—I really am sorry. I don’t know what else I can say,” she says,and her eyes plead with mine, desperate for something I can’t give. Forgiveness? Understanding? A clean slate?
I look at her. Really look at her.
She’s tired. Beaten down. Probably hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in weeks.
And a part of me—some broken, loyal part—wants to give in. Wants to tell her I’ll stay. That I’ll fix things. That I’ll pick up the slack and hold it all together, because that’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.
And if I were in this position a few weeks ago—hell, even a few days ago—I probably would have caved. “I know you’re sorry,” I say. “You don’t need to keep saying it.”
The second I say the words; we both know I’m not coming back. Not the way she wants me to.
There’s a thud upstairs, hurried footsteps across the landing—and then someone is barrelling down the stairs.
Naomi.
She stops halfway down the staircase when she sees me.
