And I let her.
Mostly because if I tried to stop her, she’d have killed me.
We’ve been on the phone every night, but it’s not the same. Hearing her breathing on the line instead of feeling it against my throat. Looking at empty rooms and imagining her curled up on one of the sofas with Cora. Watching her streams, knowing that behind the mask is my Lil’ and I can’t touch her, can’t hold her, can only watch, is hell.
But as of yesterday, she handed in her last piece of coursework, packed up her flat, and said her goodbyes to Jamie. Because she’s finally coming home, where she belongs.
And of course, that means everything else has to come to a head.
The moment the dust settled, Da started pushing for answers along with Uncle Bren. Jonathan and Helen have been circling the conversation like it might bite back, both of them knowing it has to happen, and both of them clearly terrified of what it will cost.
Because we can’t avoid the fact that Lily was kicked out of this family.
That she was cut loose and left to fend for herself in a world that already wanted to chew her up and spit her out. Branded a traitor. A liar. A threat.
When she was innocent.
No one says it out loud, but it’s there, in every pause, every glance that lingers too long, every conversation that stops the second she’s mentioned. It’s the thing none of us can outrun. The guilt hangs heavy, sour and suffocating, following us from room to room like a shadow we deserve.
The girls bite their tongues barely holding back thewe told you so’s.
And I haven’t been alone in the same room as Da since the truth came out.
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to shake the pressure building behind my eyes. I haven’t slept in—Christ, I don’t even know how long. There’s too much damage to undo. Too many people watching to see how we handle the fallout.
The lift doors slide shut, and the higher we climb, the heavier the air gets. Like the building itself knows what’s coming.
When I step into Jonathan’s penthouse, the tension hits me like a wall.
Da is pacing, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to tear the thoughts out of his skull. Uncle Bren’s leaning against a bookcase, muttering curses under his breath, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Owen stands off to the side, quiet in that dangerous way that means he’s one wrong word away from snapping someone clean in half.
Jonathan sits on the sofa, rigid, jaw locked. Helen stands beside him, one hand braced against his shoulder, trying—and failing—to soothe him. Cora’s near the window, arms crossed as she glares around the room.
It’s a mess.
We’re all a fucking mess.
But we’re family.
And it’s long past time we started acting like it.
“Any word?” Da asks the second he sees me, his voice tight—strained—with something dangerously close to fear. His eyes flick past me, like if he looks hard enough, he might will her into existence.
“She’s minutes out,” I tell him.
Cora exhales like she’s been holding her breath for a week straight, Helen’s eyes soften, and Jonathan’s hand curls into a fist against the table, knuckles whitening.
“Good,” Bren mutters. “I’m fucking sick of all of us acting like ghosts.”
“We’re not acting like ghosts,” Da snaps, spinning toward his twin. “We’re—” His voice breaks, and he swallows down his emotions before continuing. “We’re grieving.”
Owen scoffs, shaking his head as he pushes off the wall he was leaning against, taking a single step towards my Da.
“For what?” he drawls, his voice calm, cold, razor-sharp. “For losing her? Or for being the ones who pushed her out in the first place?”
The room goes dead silent.
Jonathan drops his gaze to the coffee table like it might offer absolution. Helen closes her eyes, pain etched deep into her face. Da’s nostrils flare, his jaw working like he’s chewing on something poisonous.
