I won’t. Never again.
Eyes swollen and lashes damp, Becky peers up at me.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers. “You stood there. You told them I belong.”
“What was I supposed to say?” I drag a hand through my hair and fist it, pulling hard enough to hurt. “Huh? You want me to stand there and admit it? In front of everyone? That Jackson was right?” I clench my jaw so hard it aches. “That you played me. Manipulated me.”
Every accusation I hurl at her lands. I see it in the way she breaks with every hit.
But I keep going, because if I stop, I’ll break too.
“I’m finally getting control of this place,” I say, pacing. “Ashford House. The Order. My legacy. Who I am.” I let out a bitter laugh. “And now this? You expect me to throw that away?”
“Thisisn’twho you are.” She retorts. “You’re not cruel. Not to me.”
I spin back to her, the distance gone in a step.
“Fuck that. Iamcruel. I’m a monster. A killer.” I yell, loud enough that Becky clamps her hands over her ears. “I ruin things.” My voice goes cold. “You won’t be the exception.”
She looks at me tearstained, her eyes hazy, like she doesn’t recognize me.
Makes sense. I don’t recognize myself right now either.
I don’t know who I am. Who she is. Whatwe are.
I fall silent, trying to sort through the chaos in my mind but my thoughts scramble, too many of them, too contradictory.
The only sound is her sobbing, echoing through the trees.
Slowly, I force myself to calm and for the first time since this started, something real slips through the numbness.
Small. But important.
“Did it meananything?” I whisper, my voice barely more than a rasp.
Becky’s hands drop from her ears slowly, like she’s worried any movement might set me off again. Tears track down her cheeks, but when she speaks, there’s no hesitation.
“It did. It does.” She wipes at her face, smearing the wetness more than clearing it. “It wasn’t supposed to be real. Not at first.” Her eyes lock onto mine, her voice softening. “But it is now.”
Her hand lifts toward me, hovering in the space between us.
I stay just out of reach.
“You matter.” Her hand falls back to her lap. “Carrson, you’re theonlything that feels real to me.”
I almost see it. A version of this where I believe her. Where I pull her up, drag her into me, and tell everyone else to go to hell. But there was a reason I left the bed in my father’s room. With its scars on the bed posts. A lesson.
Don’t trust anyone.
The part of me that wants to open to her slams shut. Like a door locking.
“No,” I say.
It’s not a word. It’s a verdict.
“You just got better at lying.”
Her expression collapses, not at once, in pieces. First the disbelief. Then the hurt. Then deeper. Still, she rallies. Sniffs. Lifts her chin. “I’m not lying,” she insists. “Carrson, look at me,actuallylook. You know when I lie. You know the difference.”
