I give Sierra one more beat. One last chance to say something that might soften this.
She doesn’t and my throat tightens. I exhale sharply through my nose, like my body rejects the moment altogether.
Then I turn away.
Because if I stay where I am, I’m going to break. And I refuse to do that here.
Not in front of donors.
Not in front of her parents.
Not in front of strangers who’ll turn this into entertainment before dessert hits the tables. The room swells behind me. Voices rise. Murmurs spread. People lean closer, pretending to look at the stage, pretending to check their phones, pretending they’re not watching the collapse of a family in real time.
I hear Sierra’s mother say something about going to the hallway, about not doing this in public.
I hear Griff’s voice, calm and cold, telling her to stop talking.
I hear Sierra’s father snap back.
I hear Griff again, sharper this time, words like a blade.
“It became my place when you made her believe she had to earn your love.”
That one lands even through the haze.
My stomach twists and I keep walking. This is what he was talking about at The Bar.
I don’t stop when the room fractures.
I don’t turn when someone gasps.
I don’t look back when I hear a chair scrape, a drink set down too hard, someone’s heels clicking fast across the floor.
I can’t.
I won’t.
The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer, quieter. The air feels cleaner, like it isn’t soaked in perfume and money.
Silence hits my face when I step far enough away from the crowd, grounding in a way nothing else has been tonight.
The gala continues behind me.
Laughter.
Music.
Life.
Uninterrupted.
And I realize with a clarity that makes my chest ache that whatever version of my life existed before this moment will never be what I remembered.
Not cracked.
Over.
I press my palm flat to the wall for a second like I need something solid. My breathing is normal. That’s the part that’s insane. My heart should be racing. I should be shaking.
