Chapter 86 86
Blair knocked before pushing the study door open just enough to slip inside.
She carried a small tray with the empty soup bowl, a folded napkin, and a glass of water she’d refilled on her way.
Lucas sat behind the desk, elbows braced on the wood, staring at the now-cold bowl she’d sent earlier. His tie was gone, shirt collar open, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
The faint red mark from Eleanor’s slap had faded to a dull pink, but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t.
He didn’t look up at first.
Blair set the tray quietly on the side table near the door—careful not to make noise, careful not to assume welcome.
“I just came to take this back to the kitchen,” she said softly, voice neutral. “Didn’t want to leave it out.”
Lucas finally lifted his head.
His eyes were dark—storm-dark. Jaw locked so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.
He pushed back from the desk slowly, chair scraping against the hardwood.
“Just because I was being nice for one day,” he said, voice low, “doesn’t give you the right to cook whatever you want in my house. To act like you belong here. To play house like nothing ever happened.”
Blair froze mid-step.
She didn’t snap back.
Didn’t lift her chin defiantly.
Didn’t cross her arms or roll her eyes or flash that quiet fire she used to carry like armor.
She stood silently.
Her hands dropped to her sides. Fingers curled loosely. Eyes fixed on the floor—on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug—while his words landed one after another.
Lucas kept going, voice rising just enough to fill the room.
“You think soup fixes anything? You think one bowl of broth makes up for five years? For keeping my son from me? For walking back in here and turning everything upside down like you have the right?”
He stood —tall, looming behind the desk, hands braced flat on the wood again.
Blair still didn’t speak.
She swallowed once. Her shoulders curved inward a fraction, like she was trying to make herself smaller.
Lucas stared at her—waiting for the fight, the defense, the pushback he was used to.
It didn’t come.
She just looked… tired.
Finally, she lifted her eyes—only for a second—met his gaze, then dropped it again.
“I didn’t make the soup to fix anything,” she said softly—almost too soft to hear. “I made it because you looked like you hadn’t eaten. That’s all.”
She reached for the tray.
Lucas’s hand shot out—not to grab her, but to stop the bowl from being taken.
His fingers closed around her wrist—gently firm enough she couldn’t pull away immediately.
She froze again.
He stared at where he held her—his thumb over her pulse point, feeling it flutter fast and uneven.
Then he let go.
Like touching her burned him.
Blair didn’t rub her wrist. Didn’t step back. Just picked up the tray with both hands, turned, and walked toward the door.
At the threshold she paused—back to him—voice so quiet it almost didn’t carry.
“I’m sorry the soup made you angry. I won’t do it again.”
She stepped out.
The door closed behind her—softly.
Lucas stood alone in the study.
He stared at the empty space where she’d been.
Then he sank slowly back into the chair—elbows on the desk, face buried in his hands.
His mother’s voice echoed again—sharp, unrelenting.
Fix it before I come back.
But right now, all he could fix was the silence she’d left behind.
And he had no idea how.
The front door opened with a cheerful click, followed by Mave’s excited footsteps and the driver’s polite “Have a good afternoon, Master Mave.”
Blair was already there—waiting in the foyer the way she did every day now—kneeling slightly so she was at his height the moment he rounded the corner. Her arms opened automatically.
“Hi, moonwalker!” she said, voice warm and soft. “How was school?”
Mave dropped his rocket backpack with a thud and launched himself into her hug, wrapping both arms around her neck.
“It was awesome! Aiden said my backpack is the coolest in the whole class! And we made paper airplanes and mine flew the farthest!”
Blair laughed—quiet, genuine—and squeezed him tight before setting him back on his feet.
“I’m so proud of you. Tell me everything over snack, okay?”
She took his hand and started leading him toward the kitchen, already asking about his favorite part of the day.
Lucas appeared at the top of the staircase just as they passed.
He’d changed into a fresh shirt after the hospital—crisp white, sleeves rolled—but the tension still clung to him like smoke. His mother’s words kept looping in his head:
Fix it before I come back to the Brooks mansion. Patricia Brooks would be landing in a few hours. She’d expect answers. She’d expect action. And Lucas still had no plan—no clean way to remove Blair without shattering Mave.
He descended the stairs slowly.
“Mave,” he said, voice clipped but calm, “go wash your hands for snack. I need to speak to your mother.”
Mave looked between them—smile faltering for a second—then nodded and scampered off toward the powder room.
Blair straightened, arms folding loosely across her chest. She didn’t speak first. Just waited.
Lucas stopped two steps away.
His eyes flashed over her.
“Your shoes,” he said finally, nodding toward the entry mat. “They’re tracking dirt. Again. I’ve asked you to use the boot tray.”
Blair glanced down. There was a faint smudge of playground dust on the tile—barely visible—but she didn’t argue.
“I’ll clean it,” she said quietly.
Lucas’s jaw ticked.
“And Mave’s room,” he continued, voice dropping lower. “His blocks were still scattered on the rug when I checked earlier. He could trip. You’re supposed to make sure he puts them away before he leaves for school.”
Blair’s brows drew together—
“I helped him tidy this morning. He must have gotten them out again after breakfast. I’ll speak to him.”
Lucas stepped closer.
“The laundry staff said you left one of his shirts in the dryer too long. It’s wrinkled now. He’s going to wear it tomorrow looking like he was dragged through a hedge.”
Blair exhaled slowly through her nose.
“I set the timer. Sometimes the cycle runs long if the load is uneven. I’ll iron it tonight.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re always ‘going to.’ Always ‘later.’ Always an excuse.”
Blair finally met his gaze.
“I’m doing my best, Mr Brooks.”
“Your best isn’t good enough if it means my son comes home to a house that looks like a
daycare exploded.”
The words landed heavier than he intended. He saw it—the tiny flinch in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled tighter into her palms.