Chapter 68 First Survive!

Chapter 68 First Survive!
~SCARLETT.
My son-the one I'd abandoned-has a knife at my throat. That single fact beat louder than my pulse, louder than the laughter drifting in from the backyard where everyone had been arguing minutes ago.
He and I stared each other down: me half‑kneeling, dress trapped beneath his knees; him standing far too still, far too fierce for a three‑year‑old. A box‑cutter blade hovered in the soft hollow where my heartbeat fluttered.
"Caleb," I whispered, palms up in surrender. "Please put that down, sweetheart."
He didn't so much as flinch. A gull screeched over the lake; floorboards creaked in the hall; Sylvia's gravel laugh carried faintly-proof people were near, clueless.
"Don't scream," he warned. "I cut if you scream."
"Okay." I breathed. "No screaming."
Head tipped, he said, "You keep watching us. First outside our house, then at the barbecue with Lucas."
I fought for calm. "I'm not here to hurt anyone."
"Lucas never brings girls. Now he brings the weird lady with red hair."
Guilt stabbed deeper than the knife ever could. "No one sent me, Caleb. I didn't even know he was your brother."
"Maybe you lie." His chin jutted. "Maybe you wanna break us."
Break us. The words landed like stones. By using Lucas, I'd already cracked something.
"I swear I don't," My voice shook. "I just got... mixed up. I'm sorry."
He studied me, every twitch recorded. Finally: "I don't believe you. But I won't tell. Lucas likes you. I don't want him sad."
Hope flickered, then guttered when his eyes narrowed. "But If you hurt him... hurt us... I'll tell Mommy. Aunt Sylvia. Police. Understand?"
First survive. I nodded. "I understand."
A heartbeat later the doorknob turned. We both jumped.
Lucas filled the doorway, shoulders tight, eyes wide. He took in the tableau-me on my knees, Caleb's raised hand-and a flash of pure fear crossed his face before he masked it with exasperation.
"Caleb, not this again."
Again?
"What did I say about those fake blades?" He stepped in carefully, voice gentle but firm.
"Fake?" I rasped.
Caleb flipped the knife; plastic hinges clicked as the blade folded away. "See? Not real!" He beamed, as if this were a magic trick.
The room spun. I sagged onto my heels, lungs clawing for air, because fake or not, I'd never felt closer to death.
Striding over, Lucas dropped beside me and wrapped a steadying arm around my back. "Hey, hey, breathe with me." 
He counted softly until my vision steadied, then rounded on Caleb. "Bathroom, gremlin. Hands washed. And when we get back home, all the toy knives stay in my room. Got it?"
Caleb pouted but shuffled off. Before disappearing into the bathroom, he shot me a look: a child's face wearing an adult's warning. Deal remembered.
The second he was gone, Lucas turned back, hands trembling against my arms. "Red, I'm so sorry. I didn't think he'd bring them here. I should've locked everything up after last time."
Last time. Wonderful.
"I'm okay," I lied, but my voice cracked.
"You're shaking." He pressed my palm to his chest so I could match his breathing. "In... out... good. Do you want to get out of here? I'll make an excuse."
I shook my head. Leaving would mean questions I couldn't answer, and leaving Caleb with a blade, real or not, felt worse. "Just... give me a minute."
Lucas squeezed my hand. "Take all the minutes. I'm not moving."


Three deep breaths and a splash of cold water later, we stepped onto the back patio. The world had the nerve to look calm: sunlight spilling over the yard, shadows stretching long across the grass. The grill crackled quietly nearby, and the faint clink of cutlery drifted from the table where everyone was now seated.
All five of them. Eight, now that Lucas, Caleb, and I were back.
They didn't say anything as we approached, but I caught the sideways glances, the way voices dipped mid-sentence. They'd seen me unravel. They were just pretending not to.
I couldn't decide if that made them kind... or cruel.
Lucas led me to the long farmhouse table. Plates and elbows touched. I slid into the space between him and Dani; Caleb climbed into the seat beside his brother. Across from me, Matteo reclined like he owned the view. Sylvia was planted beside him, Martin at her side, and at the head of the table sat Lucas's mother, poised like a queen quietly judging the guests.
My plate arrived piled high-ribs, corn, slaw, the works-but I couldn't bring myself to touch it. My hands still buzzed from earlier.
Lucas' mother's gaze flicked over me, cool and assessing. "Feeling better, dear?" The words dripped courtesy, the undertone said unstable girl at my table.
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you." My smile was all teeth, no warmth.
She gave a little nod. "Call me Elaine."
Beside me, Lucas sent her a pointed glare. She met it with a slow, arched brow before casually refilling her wine.
Minutes passed in forced chatter until she set down her glass and asked, just loudly enough, "So... Red, is it? What exactly do you do?"
The table fell silent. Even the cicadas seemed to pause. Lucas's muscles went steel‑rigid beside me. He knew the answer, feared the fallout.
I lifted my chin... never ashamed. "I'm a str-"
"She teaches dance," Lucas cut in, voice too bright. "Part‑time. At a neighborhood studio. The kids adore her."
Silence echoed. My gaze snapped to him; he refused to look back. Across the table Matteo's smile sharpened, eyes glittering with secrets.
Elaine hummed politely, though suspicion flickered behind her lashes. "How lovely." She pivoted to safer ground, quizzing Lucas about college work. But the temperature at the table had dropped ten degrees.
I tried to make sense of Lucas's interruption: protection or embarrassment? Either way, anger rose fast, bitter in my throat.
Something pressed insistently against the side of my boot. I glanced over, already suspecting, and found Matteo watching me. His foot angled just enough to make contact, that smug grin carved across his face. Then, without a sound, he mouthed the word: Stripper.
My stomach turned to ice.
I shoved my chair back an inch, breaking contact. No one noticed except Matteo, who toasted me with his glass before turning to whisper something that made Sylvia snort.
Around me, the conversation restarted: stilted, edges jagged. A clatter of forks, a too‑loud laugh. They felt it too: the crack running under the table.
Gripping my napkin, knuckles white, I repeated the new rhythm in my head like a mantra: Keep Lucas whole. Keep Caleb quiet. Keep myself from falling apart.