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I look at him. “Why don’t you answer it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at the road ahead.

“Just get it over with, you know?” I say quietly.

He glances at me, and there’s something in his eyes. Fear, maybe. Or resignation. Then he reaches out and taps the answer button on the screen.

“Hello?”

The voice that comes through the speakers is loud. So loud that I flinch.

“You fucking failure!”

Lucien’s whole body goes rigid.

“You had no right,” his father roars. The words slur together in a way that suggests he’s been drinking. “No right to bring that degenerate into my home⁠—”

“Dad—”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me.”

I can hear things breaking in the background. Glass shattering. Something heavy hitting a wall.

“You’re a disgrace,” his father continues. His voice is venomous, dripping with contempt. “A fucking disgrace to this family. To the Ashford name. Your mother is hysterical. Do you understand that? Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Lucien’s breathing is shallow now. Fast.

“I should have known,” his father says, and there’s something almost gleeful in his cruelty now. “I should have known when you were thirteen. Should have beaten it out of you then. But I thought, I thought, maybe Scotland would fix you. Maybe you’d come back a man.”

The words keep coming. A stream of vitriol and slurs. Some of them are so slurred I can barely make them out.

I watch Lucien’s face. I watch the way his expression goes completely blank. Like he’s not even here anymore. Like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then he reaches out and ends the call.

The silence that follows is deafening.

The music doesn’t come back on. Instead, the car is filled with the sounds of the engine, our breathing, and the rush of wind past the windows.

Lucien is shaking.

“Pull over,” I say.

He doesn’t respond.

“Lucien. Pull over.”

He blinks, like he’s coming back to himself, and then he’s signaling. Merging right. Taking the next exit.

We end up in the parking lot of a Buc-ee’s. One of those massive gas station convenience stores that dot the highways in the South. The parking lot is almost full at this hour, but we find a spot near the far end.

Lucien puts the car in park and just sits there.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do, so I just reach for his hand. He takes it. His fingers are cold, trembling. I squeeze, trying to offer some kind of comfort. Some kind of anchor. For a moment, he squeezes back. Then he lets go. He pulls his hand away and places it back on the steering wheel. His eyes fix on something in the distance. The Buc-ee’s sign, maybe. Or the highway beyond.

Dread pools in my chest, stealing my breath.

“What is it?” I ask, and I hate how scared my voice sounds.