He studies me, frowning. “Did you talk to her?”
“Not really. She replied to a text.”
“That’s it?” he asks.
“That’s it.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, pacing a tight line. “This is my sister, but she’s acting like she’s in lockdown. This is Popovich-level shit. This is—this is what it looks like when my grandmother reels someone back in.”
My pulse spikes. “What does that mean?”
“It means she’s being handled.” Luka stops pacing. “And if she’s being handled, she can’t make her own choices right now.”
A slow, sick dread coils in my gut.
“Scottie…” Luka’s voice drops, serious. “If she walked away because she was forced—”
“She told me she didn’t want me anymore,” I snap. “She said she missed New York. She said we were always temporary.”
He blinks. “You believe that?”
“I have no choice.”
Luka’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.
“What about your dad?” he asks after a moment, softer.
I take a slow, steadying breath. “He got into the trial.”
Luka’s eyes widen. “What? How? That’s—holy shit—Scottie, that’s amazing.”
“Yeah.”
“So? You should be celebrating. Tell Kat. She’d—”
“I told her.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“They emailed me,” I say quietly, staring at the floor. “Her grandmother’s lawyer. She’s signing the divorce papers tomorrow.”
The words physically hurt.
Luka closes his eyes.
“Scottie…”
“She didn’t even wait,” I whisper, with a non-comical chuckle. “Didn’t even give us a chance to talk. She didn’t even wait for the flesh wound where she tore out my heart to scab over before signing papers.”
Luka blows out a breath, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, man.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Me too.”
After he leaves, I sit alone for a long time.
Her last show is coming up. The premiere of the winter season.
