Chapter 112 The Mezzanine
The air in the pantry still felt charged, the ghost of Owen’s protective interrogation hanging between the shelves. When he finally stepped back, his face was a mask of grim resolve.
"Stay here, Ellie," he said, his voice dropping into that low 'Big Brother' register that Brookside residents knew meant the conversation was over. "Go into the kitchen. Help Mom with the dishes. Just... stay put."
He didn't wait for my answer. He turned on his heel and strode toward the back door.
I followed him into the hallway just in time to see the formation. It was a sight I’d seen a hundred times growing up—the Winslow brothers converging. Jace was already by the mudroom door, pulling on his work jacket, his jaw set. Grant was right behind him, his massive shoulders blocking the light from the kitchen.
They were a wall of muscle and history, and they were heading straight for the side exit where Rhys stood waiting.
"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice sounding smaller than I wanted it to.
Jace didn't even look at me. "Garage," he snapped.
"We’re just going to have a talk with Vance, El," Grant added, his tone clipped. "Stay out of it. Go back in the house."
"Owen—" I started, reaching for his arm.
Owen paused, his hand on the doorframe. He looked at me, and for a fleeting second, I saw the conflict in his eyes—the love for his sister warring with the primal need to protect the family honor. "This doesn't involve you right now. You’ve had your say. Now we have ours."
They marched out in a line. The screen door slammed shut with a finality that made my teeth ache.
I stood in the quiet hallway for exactly ten seconds. My heart was thundering against my ribs. They thought they could bench me while they decided the fate of my life? Not a chance.
I slipped out the side door, circling the corrugated metal building until I reached the rusted service entrance. I slipped inside, the smell of old oil and burnt rubber enveloping me. I climbed the steel stairs to the mezzanine, moving with the practiced silence of a girl who had spent a lifetime sneaking around three overprotective giants. I crouched behind a stack of tarp-covered winter tires, my fingers gripping the cold railing.
Below me, under the harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights, the world was fracturing.
Rhys wasn't cowering. He stood in the center of the workshop, leaning back against a heavy oak workbench with his ankles crossed and his arms folded over his chest. He looked remarkably calm for a man facing three brothers who looked ready to dismantle him.
"You knew the Vow, Rhys," Owen’s voice was a low, vibrating growl. "We don't let anyone break her. Not even you. Especially not you."
"The Vow," Rhys said, his voice steady, almost conversational. "The Vow is a relic, Owen. You’ve had it around her neck since she was twelve. You aren't protecting her anymore; you’re just getting in the way."
Jace took a step forward, his fists clenching. "You’ve spent the last ten years with a different girl in the back of your truck every weekend, Vance. You think we’re just going to stand by while you bring that reputation to our sister?"
Rhys straightened up then. The casual posture vanished, replaced by a raw, jagged intensity. He didn't flinch as Jace stepped into his space.
"You think I’m proud of that?" Rhys’s voice rose, echoing off the metal rafters. "You think I enjoyed any of it?"
He looked at all three of them, his eyes dark and defiant.
"Every single one of them," Rhys said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that carried perfectly to my hiding spot. "Every girl you saw me with, every name you used to mock me with—they were ghosts. I was trying to drown her out. I spent ten years trying to find one person who could make me forget that the only woman I ever wanted was the one you told me I wasn't allowed to have."
The silence that followed was heavy. The brothers paused, the aggressive momentum of the group stalling. Jace’s shoulders dropped an inch; Grant looked toward Owen, confused.
"I’ve loved her since middle school," Rhys continued, his voice unwavering. "I told her that tonight. But what I didn't tell her—what I was too ashamed to say—is that those other girls were just noise. I was trying to be the man you all thought I was. I tried to replace her a thousand times over, but the love didn't go away. It just got louder."
Owen took a breath to speak, but Rhys cut him off, his voice cracking with a decade of suppressed frustration.
"And the mocking? The way I used to pick on her in the halls? The constant teasing that made her hate my guts?" Rhys shook his head, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. "That was for me, not her. It was the only way I knew how to survive being near her without falling to my knees. If I was mean to her, I could pretend I didn't care. If I made her roll her eyes, I could ignore the way my heart stopped every time she walked into a room. I had to build a wall of salt between us just so I wouldn't drown in how much I wanted her. I was a coward, hiding behind a smirk because the truth would have destroyed the 'brotherhood' we had."
He looked at Owen, his expression weary but resolute. "I’m not the kid you used to bail out of trouble. And I’m not the guy who’s going to break her heart. I’m the only one who’s actually been holding it for the last decade."
The tension in the room shifted. It wasn't gone, but the violent edge had been blunted by the sheer weight of his honesty. The brothers looked at each other, the 'united front' beginning to look more like three men who had realized they were fighting the wrong war.
I needed to get to him. As I shifted to stand, my boot hooked the handle of a heavy steel wrench resting on the edge of the mezzanine.
I watched in slow motion as it tipped.
Clang.
The sound was like a gunshot. The wrench bounced off the concrete, the vibration ringing through the workshop.
Below me, four heads snapped up. My brothers looked caught—halfway between anger and embarrassment. But Rhys... Rhys looked up with a gaze of terrifying hope. He already had me, and now he knew I had heard every single word of his confession.