I don’t remember walking over, but I’m there, close enough to touch them.
Ruin goes quiet. He clears his throat when I brush my fingers over the top sheet. The deed. Notarized. My name printed in bold across it.
“That’s the title transfer,” he says carefully. Like I’m something fragile. “And the rest are property documents.”
I look around the living room. At the pristine floors. The untouched counters. The furniture chosen with intention.
Anger starts to simmer low in my stomach. Not explosive. Not yet, but enough to burn.
None of this should be mine. It doesn’t belong to me. Every brick, every tile, every single piece of furniture bleeds guilt.
“The box has the—”
“Stop!” The word rips out of me sharper than I intend. My head is buzzing. Rage and confusion tangling together until I can’t tell one from the other.
The uncertainty of this moment, the decision being forced on me, is almost enough for me to scream out.
The longer I breathe the air of this house, the more I recognize the guilt disguised as a gift.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, almost like it’s a reflex.
That’s what snaps something inside me. “Stop saying sorry!” My voice echoes off the high ceilings. “What the hell are you even apologizing for?”
He actually flinches.
I’ve never raised my voice at him before. I made a promise to myself when I stepped back onto club grounds that I would not lose control. But patience has eroded with every meaninglesssorry.
And the one apology that mattered? It never came.
“I didn’t need this,” I say, my voice thickening despite my effort to steady it. “I was fine staying here until you handled the Glory mess. That’s it. That’s all this was supposed to be.”
I pace into the living room and grab the crystal rose off the table. Who buys a crystal rose? I set it back down harder than necessary.
“Now you’re tying me here with your… your guilt. I don’t need a trust fund. I don’t need a house. I don’t need a…” My voice cracks before I can stop it. “…a brother. So why do I suddenly have all of them?”
Ruin exhales slowly. The words weren’t meant for him. They were meant for the man who isn’t even here.
“He is your brother,” Ruin says quietly, eyes pained. “And maybe you don’t need him. But he knows what he did, Charlotte. We know what we did. And he… needs his sister.”
A bitter laugh leaves me before I can contain it. “He doesn’t need a sister,” I say coldly. “He doesn’t have one. He lost her the day he walked away while she was getting beaten to shit.”
The silence after that is suffocating.
I move to the back windows, staring out at the massive fenced yard. It should feel peaceful.
Instead, it feels like a penance trapped in a gilded cage.
“Where even is he?” I ask flatly, shrugging.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “He and Ryder left for something. I’m not sure where.”
Of course. Club business.
I don’t look at him. “Does Mama know he’s done this? Torch?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t even know until last night.”
Silence stretches between us. I can hear his breathing now—uneven. Weighted.
