Chapter 164

Chapter 164
Linnet's POV


I squeezed her tighter, my face still pressed against her shoulder, breathing in that familiar lavender scent that had been the constant backdrop of my entire life, that would forever mean safety and home and unconditional love no matter where I went or how old I got.

"You're the best mother in the world," I whispered fiercely, pouring every ounce of conviction I possessed into those words because I needed her to believe them, needed her to understand that she hadn't failed me, that everything she'd sacrificed had been worth it.

"Don't ever doubt that. Everything I am, everything I've accomplished—it's because you loved me enough to sacrifice everything for my future. Because you showed me what strength looks like, what resilience means. Because you never gave up even when things were impossibly hard, even when you must have wanted to just collapse under the weight of it all. I could never have asked for anyone better."

We stayed like that for a long time, holding each other in the darkness of her small bedroom while the night settled around us and the sounds of the city gradually faded into the quiet hours before dawn—the distant wail of sirens, the occasional car passing on the street below, the muffled voices of our neighbors through the thin walls.

Eventually I felt Mom's breathing even out, felt her arms relax slightly around me as exhaustion finally claimed her, and I carefully adjusted my position to be more comfortable without waking her, settling back against the pillows with my head still resting on her shoulder and my hand loosely clasped in hers.

Sleep was pulling at me too, that heavy, irresistible weight that came after emotional exhaustion, after crying until you had no tears left and talking until your voice was hoarse and feeling so much that you thought your heart might actually burst from the strain of containing it all.

But before I let myself surrender to it completely I reached for my phone on Mom's nightstand, needing to check the time and make sure I'd set an alarm for school tomorrow, needing to ground myself in the practical concerns of daily life after spending so long lost in the past and its tragedies.

The screen lit up bright in the darkness, and I had to squint against the sudden glare before my eyes adjusted enough to see the notification waiting for me—a text from Bryson sent nearly two hours ago, right around the time Mom and I had been finishing the dishes and I'd been too caught up in our conversation to check my phone. The time stamp read 10:47 PM, and guilt twisted in my stomach at the thought of him waiting for a response, worrying about me while I'd been safe in Mom's arms.

[Are you okay? I've been worried about you all evening. Please tell me you're okay.]

The concern evident in those words made my chest ache with a complicated mixture of love and guilt—love that he cared so much, guilt that I'd left him anxious and uncertain for so long while Mom and I had been wrapped up in our conversation. I could picture him lying in his bed in that enormous house, probably unable to sleep, probably replaying every moment of his father's rage and wondering what consequences might be coming for both of us.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment as I tried to figure out what to say, how much to tell him. He deserved to know I was safe, deserved some reassurance after everything that had happened today, but the full weight of what Mom had told me—the complete picture of his father's cruelty, the connections between past and present—that needed to wait for daylight, for a conversation where I could see his face and hold his hand if the truth became too much to bear.

I typed carefully, keeping my voice low even though the words were silent, even though Mom's breathing had already evened out into the rhythm of sleep beside me:

[I'm okay. I think I know everything now. I'll tell you tomorrow. Good night. I love you.]

I hesitated for just a second before hitting send, my heart squeezing at those last three words—words I'd said to him before but that felt weighted with new meaning now, now that I understood the full scope of what we were up against, now that I knew loving him meant standing between him and a man who'd already destroyed so many lives in the name of control and legacy and his own twisted vision of family.

The message showed as delivered, then almost immediately as read, and I could imagine Bryson staring at his phone in the darkness of his room, processing those words, maybe finding some small measure of peace in knowing I was safe even if questions still remained. Part of me wanted to wait, to see if he'd respond, but exhaustion was pulling at me too insistently and I knew we both needed whatever rest we could get before facing tomorrow and all the conversations it would bring.

I set the phone back down on Mom's nightstand and switched it off completely, wanting no more interruptions, no more glowing screens in the darkness, just the warmth of my mother's presence and the quiet of the night settling around us.

Then I carefully shifted closer to her, adjusting my position so I could rest my head on her shoulder again, my arm draped across her waist in a protective gesture that mirrored the way she'd held me countless times throughout my childhood.

Sleep came easier now, pulling me under into dreams I wouldn't remember come morning, and my last conscious thought was that Cole was wrong—wrong to think that history was repeating itself, wrong to assume that Bryson and I were just doomed to replay the same tragedy he and Mom had lived through twenty-three years ago.

Because this time was different.