“Harley didn’t humiliate me,” I say, even though it’s a lie.
She sighs, a soft, theatrical sound. “We all knew she was never the right fit. Even you, deep down. That’s why you kept trying to fix her, and why you came to me.”
Shifting her hand, she traces the line of my forearm. Then she reaches up. It’s a slow, deliberate movement. She straightens my tie, her touch lingering at the knot, her thumb grazing my throat. It’s an act of intimacy that feels like a claim.
“We were a perfect fit once,” she continues. “Before you got distracted by the idea of rebellion. We know the same people; wewant the same things. Your parents are heartbroken, of course, but they also see an opportunity.”
Studying the tilt of her head, I note the smile measured perfectly to show support without eagerness. She is beautiful, brilliant, and everything the Thompson brand requires.
And as I look at her, I see the horror of it.
Less a person than an accessory, she has become the puppet Harley refused to be.
“You’re doing it right now,” I say, my voice flat.
Amanda blinks, her hand dropping from my tie. “Doing what?”
“The performance. You’re pitching a merger, not a relationship. You’re telling me that if I just slip back into the old role, if I just accept you as the substitute, then the scandal disappears. Our families win, and we can all go back to the country club and pretend the last few years never happened.”
Her eyes narrow, the warmth in them flickering out. “Is that so bad? A life where you don’t have to fight every single day just to justify your existence to someone who hates your family?”
“Harley didn’t hate my family. She hated what they did to people, including me and her.”
“And look what she did to you!” Amanda’s voice rises, the mask slipping just a fraction. “She left you at the altar! She destroyed your reputation in front of every business associate you have! Rather than save you, she gutted you and left you to bleed in public.”
“She was the only one who had the courage to tell me the truth,” I say. Finally having cold, sharp clarity, I don’t feel the Thompson pressure anymore.
“The answer is no, Amanda. I’m not going back—not with you, not with them. I’m done with the ‘perfect fit.’”
Across the table, she just stares. The silence in the café is a jagged, vibrating tension. She pulls her hands back, tucking them into the pockets of her silk trench coat.
“No?” she repeats, the word a hiss. “You’re saying no to me?”
“I’m saying no to the puppet show.”
“You think I want to be a puppet? You think I enjoyed changing my hair, my law specialty, my entire social circle just to fit the mold your mother built? I spent three years of my life becoming the woman Robert and Elaine wanted. I sacrificed my ambitions to be the perfect Thompson bride. And then you dumped me because I was too much like them?”
“I didn’t ask you to change,” I say, but the lie feels thin.
“Because you didn’t have to, Skyler! The silence demanded it. Every disappointed look from your father screamed it. I did this for you. I let this life consume me because I believed you were worth the sacrifice. I thought, maybe if I played the game well enough, we could have it all—the power, the prestige…each other.”
Her attention darts around the café with an expression of profound disgust. “And now you’re sitting in this dump, acting like you’re some kind of martyr for truth. But you’re nothing but a coward. You couldn’t handle the pressure of being a Thompson, and you couldn’t handle the reality of being with Harley. So now you’re just going to sit here and rot in the middle, rejecting the only person who actually understands what you’ve lost: me.”
Tracing the rim of the chipped mug, I take in the amateur art and the clutter surrounding me. It’s imperfect. Flawed. And it proves Amanda Davis is right about one thing: I am a man with no identity and no home. But I realize I’d rather be a misfit than a portrait in a museum. I’m done being perfect. If embracing the broken parts of me brings me genuine happiness, then I’ll take it all day.
Having had enough, I stand and walk toward the door, leaving Amanda behind.
The door chimes as I leave.
The humidity hits me, a thick, damp weight that feels like the Lake Forest mansion trying to drag me back down. I need to get to my car. I need to get to a highway where the only thing I have to manage is the speed limit.
“Go ahead and run, Skyler!” Amanda’s voice screeches as she follows. “Just like you always do!”
I don’t glance back. Looking back is for people who still have something to lose. Luckily, I hear the telltale sound of the bleep of her car unlocking.
I reach the curb and freeze.
There, idling like a predator in wait, is my parents’ silver Mercedes S-Class. I know that car; I know the way the tinted glass hides the rot inside.
