“You promised me,” Andi says, standing now, her voice trembling softly. “You promised you would believe me.” Her eyes find mine—wide, unguarded, shining with fear and something like hope. I see her shaking, see the way she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.
I remember the poolside. Her scars. Her hand in mine. The way she asked me for that promise.
But my mind is racing, connecting dots that don’t belong together: the inheritance, the trust fund, the generosity, the timing. My father steps closer, the scent of his aftershave sharp and familiar, but now it makes my stomach turn.
“She turns twenty-eight soon. That’s when she inherits the rest of her father’s estate rather than receiving smaller trust fund payments. She gets billions, Luke. Doesn’t it seem strange that she hasn’t told you anything about it?”
Something inside me recoils—not from Andi, but from the echo of old fear. Used. Manipulated. Blind.
“Is this true?” I ask, but my voice sounds sharp, suspicious, like it belongs to someone else.
Her face crumples—not with guilt, but with the pain of realizing I’m wavering. Hesitating. “Yes,” she says, steadying herself. “The commitment is real. The attack is not what it claims to be. The reports are twisted. Please let me explain.”
“Explain how you tried to kill someone?” I snap, and the words hang in the air like a sucker punch. I see them hit her, see her flinch, her fingers tightening around the photos until her knuckles go white.
Brandon steps forward, his voice husky. “Luke, stop. Look at her.You know her.”
But that’s the problem. Do I?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my hands shaking, my heart beating so hard I can barely breathe. The room feels smaller, like it’s closing in and making it harder to breathe.
Her answer is exhausted, not defensive. “Because every time I tried, you weren’t ready to hear it. Because you were still untangling Megan. Because I wanted you to choose me before you judged me.”
The truth in her words lands heavier than the accusations, but my fear is louder.
“You built this relationship without telling me you were institutionalized,” I say, pacing now, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath my feet. “You asked me to trust you while holding back something like this. You’re the one who has drilled me over my reputation, how others perceive me, and how I have to always protect myself.”
“I was a child,” she says, and there is steel under the tears now. “I was defending myself.”
“Luke, man. Don’t. Do. This. You will be sorry. I promise you that,” Brandon warns, his glare sharp enough to cut. My father scoffs, the sound brittle and final.
“I won’t go through this again,” I say, my voice breaking. “I won’t be made a fool of again.” I’m not talking to heranymore—I’m talking to the ghosts crowding my chest, the old betrayals clawing their way back to life.
Her shoulders straighten, and she meets my gaze. “This isn’t about Megan,” she says quietly. “This is about whether you allow your fear to decide who you abandon.”
Silence falls, thick and suffocating. I look at the photos again, at the court document, then at her. She’s not running. Not deflecting. Not manipulating. She’s waiting.
And that’s what terrifies me most. Because if she’s telling the truth, then I’m about to destroy something real.
But fear wins anyway.
“I can’t,” I say, though I’m not sure what I mean. I step back from her like she’s a threat instead of the woman I woke up beside this morning. “I can’t do this.”
The devastation in her expression is immediate and total. Her breath catches, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is my mother’s quiet sobbing.
“Luke,” she says, and this time it isn’t a plea. t’s a farewell—shaped by the understanding that when the moment came, I would choose my fear over her again.
Brandon swears under his breath. My mother sobs quietly, her shoulders shaking as the sound drifts through the room. My father says nothing, but the silence he carries is heavier than the accusations that just filled the air.A thick tension hangs over us, and the lingering shock makes everything feel brittle and raw. I sense the bitter taste of regret rising in my mouth, my pulse thrumming in my ears as grief and disbelief settle on all of us like a weight. My hands are cold, tingling with adrenaline, and it seems none of us are sure what comes next.
I walk out, every step feeling like I’m tearing something vital out of my chest. The taste of regret is bitter on my tongue, and the air outside feels colder than it should.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LUKE
By the time I reach my apartment, the anger that carried me out of my parents’ house has hardened into something heavier and less defined. It no longer feels righteous. It feels defensive. I pace the length of the living room, replaying the confrontation in fragments—the photos in my hands, the court document, my father’s voice strong with certainty. I tell myself I reacted the way any man would react when blindsided like that. I tell myself that withholding something that large is the same as lying. I repeat it enough times that it almost sounds reasonable.
Almost.
