She spun away from the table and left the room.
My father exhaled hard and followed without another word, like he always did.
The silence that settled in their absence felt heavier than their voices.
I stared at their empty chairs. Then I lifted my glass with shaky fingers and tipped back the last of the wine.
46
Madeline
Every morning, half-asleep and I grabbed my phone and waited for the message. It was habit. What wasn’t habit was the hope that followed right behind it, hope that he’d overreacted.
I expected an apology but it never came.
The second week was grief in slow motion. The kind that lives in your throat and makes every swallow feel like swallowing glass.
I moved through my days like nothing had changed because in my world, you don’t fall apart where anyone can see it.
The third week was when I started to hate myself for how much I missed him.
I hated how dependent I’d let myself get. That picking underwear turned into a whole thing.
I stood in front of my drawer for too long, fingers hovering over lace and silk like the wrong choice would mean I’d failed. There was no morning message telling me which set and that he was waiting for a photo.
Of a night, I would lie in bed with my phone in my hand and reflexively catalogue my day the way I used to for him—what I ate, what I didn’t, who I met, what I handled, what made me spike, what made me shaky, what made me miss him so badlymy ribs ached. My thumbs would hover over the screen, ready to send the debrief message out of sheer muscle memory.
Then I’d remember.
There was nowhere to send it.
I called him near the end of the third week because I couldn’t keep living with a hole shaped exactly like him. No answer. On the fourth night, I tried again. The call didn’t even go through. A refusal so clean it made me feel disposable.
Blocked.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.
Though, tonight was different because it was the first time I’d seen him since the day he broke me.
The restaurant sat inside the casino like it was trying to be a cathedral, crystal, white linen, and staff who moved like ghosts. It was the kind of place where everyone spoke softly because money didn’t like noise.
My family loved places like this. They loved anything that looked like control.
Uncle Zeke was halfway through telling a story about a trade dinner like he’d been the hero of it. My father listened with that practiced calm he wore in public. Aunt Diana smiled too often, the way women did when they were trained to be agreeable. My mother sat like she owned the room, her posture flawless, her expression composed in a way that always felt like a threat.
I had barely touched my plate.
I told myself I wasn’t hungry. I told myself it was nerves from being surrounded by dynasty eyes. I told myself a lot of things.
The private booths above the dining room curved along the upper level like balconies in an opera house. From there, you could see everything below. Everyone down here was on display whether they realized it or not.
Vince sat up there.
He was in the center of the booth with his brothers arranged around him like the world naturally organized itself into Crow hierarchy. Rome leaned back with a drink, loud even from a distance. Luca sat still, attention angled outward like he was tracking exits and threats without moving his head. Bastion looked carved from boredom and violence.
Vince looked… fine.
He had a drink in his hand. His shoulders were relaxed. His mouth moved in the smallest expression of amusement—barely there, but real.
