Chapter 159

Chapter 159
Linnet's POV


"I do love him," I said, "I love Bryson. Not because of his identity or his family background, but because of who he is—the person he's trying to become despite everything his father has done to break him."

The admission hung in the air between us, and I watched Mom's face carefully for any sign of disappointment or concern, any indication that she thought I was making a terrible mistake by tying myself to Cole Doyle's son. But instead of the worry I'd expected, I saw something softer in her expression—a kind of recognition, maybe, or understanding born from her own experience of loving someone when the world seemed determined to keep you apart.

Mom was quiet for a long moment, studying my face with that careful attention she'd always given to the things that mattered most, the way she used to examine my scraped knees when I was little to determine whether they needed bandages or just a kiss to make them better.

Then she reached across the table and took both my hands in hers, her grip warm and solid despite the exhaustion evident in every line of her body, in the way her shoulders curved inward like she was still protecting herself from blows that hadn't fallen in over two decades.

"Then I'll do everything in my power to help you two be together," she said simply, and the conviction in her voice made something tight in my chest finally loosen. "Cole is blinded by jealousy and his need for control, but he can't control Bryson forever. Bryson is an adult now—he needs to stand up and fight back against his father."

"He is fighting back," I said quickly, needing her to understand that Bryson wasn't just passively accepting his father's abuse, that he wasn't like those men in the domestic violence statistics we'd studied in health class who perpetuated cycles of violence because they'd never learned any other way to exist in the world. "After Cole found us together, when he was saying all those horrible things about you and me—Bryson stood up to him. He's been living under his father's control for so long, but I can see him starting to resist, starting to push back. And it's not just for me, Mom. It's for his mother too."

The words felt important somehow, like they were a key piece of evidence in an argument I was making not just to Mom but to myself—proof that what Bryson and I had wasn't just teenage infatuation or the thrill of rebellion against authority, but something deeper and more meaningful.

Because if Bryson was fighting back, if he was choosing to resist his father's control even knowing the cost, then that meant he was capable of change, of growth, of becoming someone fundamentally different from the monster who'd raised him.

Mom's expression shifted, confusion flickering across her features like shadows cast by a candle flame. "His mother?"

"Yes. She was Cole's first wife." The words felt heavy on my tongue, weighted with the tragedy of a woman I'd never met but whose shadow touched everything about Bryson's life, whose death had carved out a hollow space in him that I could feel even when he was smiling, even when he was kissing me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. "According to Bryson, Cole treated her terribly. He cheated on her after they were married, abused her, raped her—"

I watched Mom flinch at that word, saw the way her whole body tensed as if she'd been struck, and I realized with a sick feeling in my stomach that she was recognizing her own trauma reflected in another woman's suffering, seeing the path she might have walked if she'd stayed with Cole, if she hadn't been strong enough or lucky enough to get away before his abuse escalated from psychological to physical to something even worse.

"It seems like after you left, Cole's true nature came out completely, got even worse," I continued, forcing myself to keep going even though every word felt like I was pressing on a bruise, making something hurt that had never fully healed. "Eventually Bryson's mother couldn't take it anymore. She killed herself with sleeping pills when Bryson was ten years old."

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of our refrigerator and the muted sounds of someone's television bleeding through the thin walls of our apartment—a laugh track from some sitcom, absurdly cheerful against the weight of what we were discussing.

I found myself focusing on that incongruous sound, using it as an anchor to keep from drowning in the horror of what I'd just revealed, the casual cruelty of a man who could drive someone to suicide and then just move on with his life like it was nothing, like the woman he'd destroyed was just collateral damage in whatever game he was playing.

Mom's face had gone pale, all the color draining from her cheeks until she looked almost ghostly in the harsh fluorescent light of our kitchen, and her eyes were dark with a grief that encompassed not just her own trauma but this other woman's—this stranger who had suffered the same monster's cruelty and hadn't survived it.

I wondered if Mom was thinking about how easily that could have been her, if she'd made different choices or been less lucky, if she'd believed Cole's apologies and promises to change the way so many abuse victims did.

"That poor boy," Mom said finally, her voice rough with unshed tears that made it crack on the last word. "To be Cole's son for all these years, to endure that kind of environment—I can't imagine the strength it must have taken just to survive, let alone to still be capable of love and kindness after witnessing all of that."

She squeezed my hands tighter, her gaze intense and unwavering in a way that made me feel like she was trying to communicate something beyond words, some understanding that passed between women who'd both been touched by Cole's darkness.

"Linnet, we need to help him. Not just because he's your boyfriend, but because no one—no matter who they are—deserves to be treated the way Cole treats people. That boy needs someone in his corner, someone who sees him as more than just Cole Doyle's son."