Chapter 87 87
He hadn’t turned on any lamps. Just sat behind the desk in the cooling dark, elbows on the wood, fingers steepled against his lips, staring at nothing.
His mind wouldn’t shut up.
Just say it Brooks.
“So Blair… can you leave? I have a fiancée. I love her. Olivia and I—we can both take care of Mave. Joint custody. Weekends. Holidays. You’ll still see him. But you can’t stay here.”
The thought felt rehearsed.
Then another voice—crashed in.
Or just be honest Brooks.
“You whore. Get out of here. You had your chance five years ago. You hid my son. You don’t get to play mommy now just because you’re convenient. Pack your shit and go.”
He winced at his own imagined cruelty.
No. Too harsh. Mave would hear the echo later. Kids always do.
Or perhaps you can say this Brooks.
“Blair, this isn’t working. You being here is confusing him. Confusing me. Olivia is my fiancée. She’s been part of this family longer than you ever were. We’ll set up visitation. A nice apartment. Money. Whatever you need. But you have to go.”
He rubbed his temples hard.
She’ll cry. She’ll look at me with those eyes—like she did in the hallway last night. And I’ll hate myself more.
Then do it fast. Rip the bandage.
“Blair. You’re leaving tomorrow. Driver will take you anywhere. I’ll send monthly support. Mave stays here. That’s final.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
She’ll fight. She’ll say ‘he needs me.’ She’ll be right. And then what?
The thoughts kept spinning—faster, colder—each one ending the same way: her walking out the front door, Mave screaming, Patricia nodding in grim approval, and Lucas left standing in an empty foyer wondering why victory felt like swallowing glass.
He leaned back in the chair, head falling against the high leather back.
Exhaustion finally won.
His eyelids grew heavy.
The room grew colder—night air seeping through the old windows.
He didn’t notice when he slipped into shallow sleep—head tilted to the side, arms loose on the armrests, breathing slow and uneven.
The door opened quietly some time later.
Blair stepped in—carrying a throw blanket she’d taken from the living-room sofa. She’d noticed the study light still on from the hallway, noticed the house growing chilly, noticed he hadn’t come out for dinner.
She paused when she saw him—slumped, vulnerable in sleep, face slack in a way she hadn’t seen since before everything broke.
She shook her head once.
Stubborn man.
She crossed the room on silent feet.
Gently—carefully—she draped the thick wool blanket over his shoulders, tucking it around his chest so it wouldn’t slip. Her fingers brushed his collarbone for half a second, remembering the way he’d touched her earlier today, then pushed her away.
She pulled back.
Turned to leave.
Then he spoke.
Sleep-talking—softly, slurred and barely audible.
“Stay… please stay… don’t go again…”
A pause. His brow furrowed even in sleep.
“Missed you… so much… don’t leave Mave… don’t leave me…”
Blair stopped breathing for a second.
She looked back at him—really looked.
The hard lines of his face had softened.
Her throat tightened.
She stepped closer again.
Slowly—hesitating—she reached out and brushed a lock of dark hair off his forehead. Her fingers lingered, tracing lightly down the side of his face, over the faint stubble, along the curve of his jaw.
He sighed in his sleep—small, content—and leaned into her touch like a cat seeking warmth.
Blair’s eyes stung.
She let her hand rest there a moment longer—palm cupping his cheek—then gently pulled away.
She adjusted the blanket one last time, tucking it tighter around his shoulders.
Then she turned.
Walked out.
Closed the door behind her with the softest click.
Blair walked quietly down the long corridor toward the east wing, the empty soup tray still balanced in her hands. The house lights were off.
She reached the guest wing stairs and started down.
Halfway to the bottom, the entire hallway suddenly flooded with light.
Every sconce, every chandelier, every recessed ceiling fixture snapped on at once.
Blair froze on the step, blinking against the sudden glare.
She heard a cool cultured voice.
“So… who do we have here?”
Blair’s heart lurched.
She stretched her eyes, squinting down the staircase.
Patricia tilted her head, studying Blair the way one might study a mildly interesting insect.
“Hmm. You must be Blair.”
Blair instinctively took half a step back, one hand tightening on the tray.
Patricia moved closer—ascending the first few steps until she was only an arm’s length below Blair. The older woman’s perfume arrived first.
“Have we met before, Blair?” Patricia asked, voice silky.
“I’m…” Blair started, voice small.
Patricia raised one perfectly manicured finger.
“Sshh, you little whore.”
The word landed like a slap.
Blair flinched. The tray trembled in her hands.
Patricia continued, eyes raking over Blair from head to toe—taking in the hoodie, the faded jeans, the bare feet, the faint shadows under her eyes.
“So you think you can stumble into my house with your little bastard and claim Lucas?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “Is he even the father? I’m not shocked. It’s common among the ladies in LA. Everyone just wants to benefit from the Brooks name.”
Blair’s throat closed. She couldn’t speak.
Patricia stepped up one more stair—now eye-level with Blair.
She gave her a slow, once-over—head to toe, toe to head—like she was appraising a second-hand dress.
She reached out—slowly—and lifted the empty soup bowl from the tray with two fingers, like it might be contaminated.
“You made soup for my son,” she said softly. “How quaint. Did you think a bowl of broth would buy you a place here?”
Blair’s eyes stung. She blinked hard.