"Isn't it?" She'd pulled back, her eyes red and swollen. "His dirty little secret. That's what I am. That's all I'll ever be."
I'd tried to tell her Thorne was wrong, that he was lashing out, that people say things they don't mean when they're hurting. But my words felt hollow even as I said them. Because maybe hedidmean them. Maybe that's exactly how he sees her.
By the time she finally fell asleep, exhausted from crying, it was past midnight. And I was left sitting in the dark, replaying every cutting word, every deliberate cruelty.
At 2 a.m., I give up on sleep and head downstairs for water, or bourbon, or whatever might quiet the rage still simmering under my skin.
The kitchen light is already on.
Of course it is.
Thorne sits at the island, mug in front of him. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.
I should turn around. Instead, I head for the cabinet.
"Ivy—"
"Don't." I don't look at him. "I'm getting water. Unless that's against one of your precious rules too."
He doesn't respond immediately. Then: "I deserve that."
"You deserve a lot more than that." I fill my glass, my back still to him. "She's fourteen, Thorne. Fourteen. And you gutted her at your dinner table like it was a hostile takeover."
"I know."
"Do you?" Now I turn, and all the rage I've been holding back for Madison's sake comes flooding out. "Because from where I sat, you knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted to hurther. Just like I said—you understand pain, and you chose to inflict it."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away. "You're right."
"Don't." I slam my glass down. Water sloshes over the rim. "Don't you dare sit there and agree with me like that makes it better. Like acknowledging you're an asshole somehow absolves you."
"I'm not trying to—"
"She cried for two hours, Thorne. Two hours. Do you know what she said?" My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "She said maybe your father was right to hide her. That she's nobody's. Just a dirty little secret."
His eyes close for a fraction of a second. Good. Let him feel it.
"So no, I don't want your tea, I don't want your apologies, and I sure as hell don't want to hear about your tragic backstory that somehow justifies treating a child like she's—"
"Nothing justifies it."
His words cut through my tirade, quiet but firm.
“Nothing I say or do or explain will justify what I said to her tonight. You want me to feel like shit? Mission accomplished. You want me to know I'm my father's son after all? Got that memo too." He sets down his mug with a sharp clink. "So what now? You want to keep going, or can we figure out how to survive the next three months?"
We stare at each other across the kitchen island, neither willing to give ground.
"Why are you even down here?" I finally ask, exhaustion creeping into my anger. "Can't sleep either, or just plotting new ways to make our lives miserable?"
"Can't sleep." He gestures to his mug. "Tea seemed better than bourbon."
Despite everything, I notice. The deliberate choice. The discipline.
"About dinner," he starts again. "I was—"
"A jerk. An asshole. A—"
"Yes. All of those." He meets my eyes. "I apologize. For what I said to Madison. For how I said it. For..." He hesitates. "For making her feel like she's not wanted here."
