"And it’s working. Look at this. I fired everyone. I locked you in. I threw away your coffee. I am doing exactly what he predicted."
He buries his face in his hands again.
"I am becoming him."
The confession hangs in the air, heavy and devastating.
This is the root of it. Not the baby. Not the enemies outside. It’s the enemy inside. He is terrified that his DNA is a loaded gun pointed at our child.
I feel a surge of fierce, protective anger. Not at Silas. At Pendelton. At the ghost of a dead father who is still trying to abuse his son from the grave.
"No," I say.
Silas looks up. "What?"
"You are not him."
I grab the chair and spin it so he is facing me fully. I step between his spread knees.
"Your father hurt you because he liked it," I say, my voice steady. "He hurt you to make you weak. To break you."
I take his hands. They are large, calloused, trembling.
"You are locking me up because you love me. It’s misguided. It’s annoying. It’s driving me crazy. But it is not cruelty, Silas. It is love twisted by fear."
"It feels the same," he whispers. "The cage feels the same."
"Then open the door," I challenge him.
"I can't. If I let you go..."
"I’m not asking you to let me go," I say. "I’m asking you to let me in."
I take his hand and place it on my stomach.
He tries to pull away. "Ivy, don't."
"Feel it," I command.
I press his palm against the warmth of my sweater.
"There is no monster in here," I say. "There is just a baby. Our baby."
"A Vane," he says bitterly. "Bad blood."
"My blood too," I remind him. "And I am not cursed. I am a survivor. This baby will be a survivor."
I lean down until our foreheads touch.
"Pendelton wants you to be a tyrant," I whisper. "He wants you to isolate yourself until you snap. He wants you to destroy us so he can pick up the pieces."
"Yes."
"So don't give him what he wants."
I kiss the corner of his mouth.
"Your father broke things," I say. "You build them. You built an empire. You built this home. You are building a family."
