I set the pen down and stare at the cream-colored envelope. My mother doesn't want a daughter; she wants a placeholder. She wants a woman who can stand next to a man like Jace Prescott and look like a success story. By refusing to "fix" my marriage, I haven't just lost a husband; I’ve defaulted on a loan they took out on my life the day I was born.
I stand up, my legs stiff, and wander back toward the kitchen. The bucket of soapy water is still there, cold now, with a thin film of gray bubbles on the surface. I should pour it out. I should go to bed. But my mind is a reel of film that won't stop spinning.
I can still feel the weight of the air in my father’s study a year and a half ago. The smell of expensive leather and aged scotch. It’s a scent that used to mean safety when I was a child, but that night, it smelled like an interrogation room.
"Who is he, Sierra?"my father had asked. He hadn't risen from his chair. He just sat there, his silhouette framed by the firelight, looking at me like I was a faulty piece of equipment."Give me a name so we can determine how to proceed."
I remember the way my tongue felt like lead. I remember the panic, sharp and jagged, slicing through my chest. If I saidKnox, everything would end. They wouldn't just shun me, they would do worse, they would erase him. My father had enough influence to ensure Knox never worked a decent job in this state again. He would have turned a local troublemaker into a pariah.
So I gave them Jace.
We had been on-again, off-again for years, and he was the only name that made the interrogation stop.
I remember the way my father’s posture had instantly relaxed when I spoke that name. The "problem" was no longer a catastrophe; it was a merger. Over the following weeks, the shock eventually gave way to a ring, a press release, and a timeline.
I was too afraid to tell Jace the truth. How do you tell a man who was just starting to accept a future he hadn't even been looking for that his name was the one I said because I was terrified of what they’d do if I told the truth? That he’s a shield? I let him hold me while I cried, letting him think the tears were out of joy for our surprise blessing, when really, I was mourning the life I was never allowed to choose.
I walk to the window and look down at the streetlights of downtown. Somewhere out there, Knox is probably closing up the shop with Griffin. He’s probably laughing at a joke, or wiping grease off his forehead, completely unaware that his baby, the little one who would have had his stubborn streak and his restless spirit—is a ghost kept in a file labeledPrescottin a cemetery across town.
The locket. The thought of it pulls at me again.
I go to my bedroom and reach for the small jewelry box on my dresser. I don't keep much from my childhood, but tucked into the velvet lining is a photo I took when I was sixteen. It’s a polaroid of Knox and Griffin sitting on the tailgate of an old truck, covered in dirt and grinning like they owned the world.
Knox looks so young. His eyes are bright, before the world hardened him, when he forgot that being a Taylor meant you were always starting ten steps behind everyone else. I remember the day I took it. I was thinking that if I could just stay in that moment, in the heat of that summer afternoon where labels didn't matter, I might actually be happy.
But I'm a Carter. And Carters don't get to be happy; we get to be envied.
I trace the outline of Knox’s face in the photo. My fingers are still red from the bleach, a physical manifestation of the guilt I can't scrub away. Griffin thinks it’s a "beautiful, tragic mess." But Griffin gets to be honest. He gets to walk away because our parents gave up on him years ago.
I’m the one who has to walk into those galas. I’m the one who has to look Jace in the eye if we cross paths at a charity event and pretend that my heart didn't break for a completely different reason than he thinks it did.
I tuck the photo back into the box and shut the lid.
I need to be disciplined. I need to be the architect. I pick up the bucket of cold, dirty water and carry it to the sink. As the gray liquid swirls down the drain, I realize that no matter how much I clean, no matter how many thank-you notes I write, I am still standing in the wreckage.
And the worst part isn't that I'm a liar. It's that if I were back in that study a year and a half ago, with my father’s cold eyes on me and Knox’s future on the line... I’d probably do it all over again, just to keep them from destroying him.
Chapter Nineteen
The Wrong Kind of Quiet
Jace
The quiet in my office today has been the wrong kind. It’s not the productive, focused silence I usually thrive on; it’s the restless, static-filled weight that’s been following me since I left Sarah’s porch.
I can still feel the ghost of her touch, the way the air between us had turned thick and electric before she pulled back. She’d set a boundary, and I’d accepted it—not because I wanted to, but because Sarah isn't a woman you push.
She’s a woman you earn.
But that’s the problem. Being "gentlemanly" is a mask I’ve worn so long it’s fused to my skin. Her restraint unsettled me more than a flat-out rejection would have. It left me feeling unanchored, like I was floating in the space between the man I used to be and whoever the hell I’m becoming.
I can’t stand the thought of going back to the house. I don't want to stare at those four walls and think about divorce papers or social recovery plans.
I find myself pulling into the lot of The Bar.. It’s late, and the neon sign hums with a low buzz that matches the vibration in my nerves. I just need a drink, a bit of noise, and a moment where I don’t have to be the architect of anything.
The bar is relatively thin for a Tuesday, but the moment I step inside, the familiar smell of stale beer grounds me. I spot a familiar silhouette at the far end of the bar.
Griffin.
