Page 148 of Broken Blades

"Chastity?"

She stepped inside before I could ask anything, brushing past me into the hotel room. The scent of her perfume mixed with night air and something sharper—panic, maybe. Fear.

I shut the door and turned.

She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, breathing too fast.

"What happened?" My voice came out harder than I meant it to. "Did someone hurt you?"

She shook her head, but the movement was jerky. Unconvincing.

"Talk to me."

She looked at me then, and the expression on her face gutted me.

Not anger. Not tears.

Something worse.

Confusion. Betrayal. Like the ground had opened beneath her and she was still falling.

"I heard them," she whispered.

I stepped closer. "Heard who?"

"My parents." Her voice cracked. "They were fighting at the party. I wasn't supposed to—I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but⁠—"

She pressed her palms to her face.

When she looked up again, her eyes were glassy.

"My mother said something about Barbara." She swallowed hard. "About my father sleeping with her. For two years."

Every nerve in my body lit.

"She called Barbara his mistress, Wyatt."

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Because this was it. The moment the lie started unraveling. The moment she started putting the pieces together. And I had no idea what the hell to say.

"Did my father have an affair with Barbara?"

The question hung in the air between us, and I felt every muscle in my body lock down. Her voice trembled, but underneath the fear was something harder. Determination. She'd driven God knew how far in the middle of the night to ask me this. She deserved the truth.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. "Yes."

The word felt like pulling a trigger.

Her breath caught—sharp and pained—but she didn't look away. Didn't flinch.

She nodded once, like she'd been hoping I'd deny it but had known I wouldn't.

Then she told me everything. The merger party. The fake smiles and champagne and investors circling like vultures. Her father introducing her to her ex—her goddamn ex—like it was nothing. Like she was a prop in his performance. The way the bastard had cornered her near the balcony. How she'd slapped him when he'd grabbed her wrist.

Pride flared hot in my chest at that detail, but I kept my face neutral.

Then the hallway. Looking for her father. Hearing voices raised behind a closed door.

Her mother's voice breaking through years of polished silence.