The word tastes metallic.
The Laurents are collapsing, and they plan to break me first so they don’t have to feel the impact.
“I’m not agreeing to anything until you tell me who he is,” I insist. My pulse is a hammer in my throat. “You don’t get to hide this from me.”
“You will speak respectfully,” my father snaps.
“I will speak like someone whose life you’re trading like a stock you over-leveraged.”
His eyes harden. “Vivian—”
“Tell me his name.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s nothing more to discuss.” His voice cracks like a whip. “You will do this.”
I open my mouth—whether to scream or laugh or beg, I don’t know—but he cuts the moment short. He rises abruptly, the movement sharp, final.
“This conversation is over.”
And he walks out, leaving the faint scent of his cologne and the echo of his cowardice behind.
The lingering silence is suffocating.
I turn to my mother.
She sits perfectly still in her chair, silver-blonde hair twisted into an immaculate chignon, a pale Chanel suit hugging her frame, a vintage silk scarf knotted elegantly at her throat. Her kitten heels are crossed at the ankles, posture flawless.
She looks like a woman sculpted from cold marble and old money. The kind of mother who believes appearances matter more than happiness.
More than truth.
More than me.
I shake my head slowly. “Are you happy?” I ask her. “With any of this?”
Her lashes flutter, but her face doesn’t break.
“We’re your parents,” she says quietly. “This is for your own good.”
I laugh under my breath—soft, bitter, exhausted. Of course that’s what she’d say. That’s what she always says when she doesn’t want to choose me over him. I rise, every muscle tight, my heartbeat a mix of fury and disbelief.
“It’s not for my own good,” I whisper. “It’s for yours.”
And I walk away before she can say anything else—because if I stay a second longer, I might start screaming.
I storm up the stairs, heels hitting the marble hard enough to echo through the entire townhouse. By the time I reach my bedroom, my pulse is pounding in my ears.
I slam the door shut, lock it, and press my back against it, dragging in a long, shaky breath.
Then another.
Then I start pacing—back and forth across the room, past the silk drapes, the crystal vanity, the curated perfection of a life that has never actually belonged to me.
I’ve always known this was coming.
