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LaBlanc’s jaw tightens, before he looks at the Harrises. “Lillian has a deep affinity for art and several artists.” It’s nicer than I’m expecting, my body starting to settle in the chair. “But she can get lost in it. I apologize for her inconsiderate ramblings. It won’t happen again.”

Lillian nods. She’s a puppet and LaBlanc is the one pulling the strings, her entire body sitting line-straight, eyes avoiding the florals at the table more than anything else. She won’t even eat.

And I can’t take it anymore. This is it. I’m fracturing; my body and mind have bent and bent, forced to be front row to the systematic breaking down of Lily LaBlanc since far before I really understood what was happening. LaBlanc has made me feel like a petulant child whenever I’ve been forced to interact with him. What would happen if he had control of my entire life—finances, schooling, what I wore, what I ate, who I saw?

Lily LaBlanc is what would happen.

Raised in that house on the hill, terrified to be too loud, embarrassed by her hearing loss, sad and lonely, backed into a corner in her own life with, seemingly, only one way out. Is it so surprising? She was drowning and the only life raft was me and I’d fucked that up. She had every right to be scared of me after that night, after everything that happened.

And then?

“He said I was acting like my mom.”

Lily had always dealt with depression, but she found what worked for her as best she could. She’d always been a little odd and a little lonely, and every bit of that only made me more in love with her.

She failed at Harvard because she never should have been there. She went back home because there wasn’t another option. The girl barely used a phone. I could count on one hand the amount of friends she’s ever had and half of them were made in the last month. Apartments, rent, bank accounts—it all might as well have been a foreign language.

There’s a deeper, more selfish part of myself that wants to shout: Why didn’t you call me? But she signed that restraining order. She was scared of me enough to sign it. And I was so full of rage and without a fucking dollar to my name, what would I have done to help her?

I’d been scared even when I had that shiny promise of an NHL contract. Lily was ready to start naming our future children. I was terrified I couldn’t make enough money for us to eat. Take away that salary and throw me in a dorm, on teams with people who hated me more than they ever wanted to play with me? You get one angry, terrified, bitter kid.

And I’m not much better now.

She was trapped, and whatever deal Carson made, of course she’d agreed to it. Why wouldn’t she have? What else could she possibly have done?

I look at Lily now, shoulders curved in, eyes wide.

I can’t do this anymore.

Maybe there’s a chance I can fix it. Can make it all right again. But it’s not right now, when I want to put my fist through both Carson and LaBlanc and I can’t. Because it would solve nothing. Every bit of anger and rage I feel now is wasting time and energy. It’s unhelpful, for her and myself.

I need to get out of here. Just for a ride. For the night. Reset, work through this, and figure out a way for us both to move on from this, whatever that means.

Shoving back from the table suddenly, the conversations stop. Max Koteskiy is giving a speech, Oliver at his side with his arms trembling. I’ve made enough noise to draw Max’s eye, but he keeps talking as if I didn’t knock over my water and nearly shatter the plates with the force of my movement.

“I can’t—”

There’s no excuse I can make, and I don’t want to. I turn on my heel and leave. Because I’m not going to be part of this. Maybe I can’t fix it; maybe it has to be her. But I won’t sit, complicit and quiet while they treat her this way. Not anymore.

Chapter 48

Toren

It’s frigid outside, no snow but I have a feeling it’s coming. And yet, I feel warm still—adrenaline, fury, and something else I won’t dare to name burning along my spine, making my body feel hot and jumpy.

There’s a small sound—a light pitter-patter of heels on pavement, before I sigh and brush a frustrated hand across my eyes and pinch the throbbing bridge of my nose.

“Go back inside, Lily.”

There’s no sound, which only irritates me more before I whip toward her.

“What do you want?”

She’s standing in the cold, her milky skin bare, barely contrasting with the white silk she’s only slightly covered in. Her shoulders bend as her hands rub over her own arms, before settling at her sides, fists tight.

Lily doesn’t say anything, wide blue eyes flickering up at me. She’s fidgeting still, hair half spilt out of her once fancy updo. And her goddamn little tits are nearly poking through the white fabric of her dress. My mouth waters. God, I want to fuck her. I’m half convinced it would fix me, calm the racing feeling in my veins.

She’s angry too. Good. She should be.