Page 106 of Shattered In Darkness

“He’s not who you think he is,” Brody says quietly. “He’s not just a lawyer. He’s something darker. Powerful, cruel, obsessed with control. When my mother died—when she was killed—he swore it was Marcus’s people, that Marcus wanted her gone because she was getting too close. Or maybe he wanted me gone. He’s been at war with your stepfather ever since. I got dragged in whether I wanted it or not.”

A chill sweeps through me that has nothing to do with the cold air. “You think Marcus had something to do with your mom’s death?” My voice is barely more than a croak. “I didn’t know. Brody, I swear, I never knew any of this. Marcus keeps everything in the dark. He always has. I’m not part of any of it. I’m not⁠—”

His glare slices through me. “Don’t. Don’t play innocent. Not after everything. You lived in his house. You did his jobs. You let him—” His voice breaks, jagged and angry.

I feel the sting in my eyes again. “Let him? You think I had a choice? You think I ever wanted any of this?” My hands ball into fists, nails digging into my palms. “You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. You don’t know what he’s done to me.”

He stares at me, searching my face for lies. I see the war flicker in his eyes. He wants to believe I’m just another piece on the board, another traitor, but something cracks at the edge of his mouth.

“What did he do?” he asks, voice rough.

I flinch. “You want all the details? He’s kept me locked away for years. He puts his hands on me in ways that fucking shatters me. He controls where I go, who I see, what I wear. If I step out of line, I pay for it. He says I’m his, that I should be grateful he didn’t break me worse. I’m not part of his war, Brody. I’m just a casualty.”

He sits down, hard, as if the confession knocks the breath out of him. For the first time, I see doubt in the set of his shoulders, the way his fists unclench, knuckles white. He looks smaller, folded in on himself.

Silence fills the room. The fire pops. The wind claws the window frame.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asks, voice thin. “Back then. Why didn’t you let me in?”

I swallow. My throat aches from all the words I’ve never said. “Because he threatened to kill you if I did. Because he made sure you’d never come back. Because he made me say things, do things, so you’d hate me enough to stay away.”

He shakes his head, but it’s not denial. It’s disbelief, world-shattering. For a long time, neither of us speak. I stare into the fire, wishing I could crawl inside the flames.

Brody’s voice is low, almost lost in the storm. “I thought I could hate you forever. It was easier. Safer. But if what you’re saying is true—if you really never had a choice⁠—”

My voice is shaky. “I never did. I’m still fighting to have one.”

He doesn’t answer. He wraps his arms around himself, looking everywhere but at me. For the first time, I see him uncertain, hollowed out, not the monster he plays for my benefit but someone wounded and tired and just as lost as I am.

The dread in the cabin thickens, but something else swirls beneath it: the beginning of understanding, or at least the end of blind hatred.

“Tell me the rest,” I say, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. “Tell me what your father is, what you’re part of now.”

Brody’s eyes are black, haunted. “Richard will do anything to win. He keeps files on everyone. He makes people disappear. Threatens, manipulates, buys loyalty or ruins lives when he can’t. He taught me how to survive, how to fight dirty, just like Marcus did with you.”

I let the words sink into the silence.

“We’re both just property. Two people trapped in a cage,” I whisper.

He laughs, but the sound is cracked. “Not to me. Not anymore. I don’t know what you are to me now, Lola. But you’re not nothing.”

Rain rattles on the window. The fire eats the last of the wood. Our shadows stretch longer, ragged and thin, reaching for each other across the frozen floor. We sit together, not close, not touching, but the distance between us is different now. Not hate. Not quite trust. Just two people, broken by the same hands, waiting for the next blow to fall.

34

LOLA

THE PAST (AGED 19)

Tonight, I’m supposed to be impressive.

Marcus picks the dress. Tight in the hips, high in the hem. He stands in my doorway as I model it for him, his face blank.

“Don’t embarrass me,” he says. “You’re representing the best. My best.”

He adjusts the neckline with two fingers, pressing the fabric down until I feel exposed. The look on his face says, ‘Remember you’re property, not a person.’ I nod, eyes on his shoes.

I shave my legs twice and put on the lipstick shade he likes: deep red, makes me “pop.” My hair stays loose around my face because Marcus said “it softens you.” I hate how obedient I am. I hate that I barely recognize myself in the mirror, except for the eyes. Eyes too blue, too easy to read. Weakness.