Chapter 130: Happy New Year!

"Four!"

The shout from the terrace was a collective roar of joy, but inside the den, the world had narrowed to the cold, circular pressure against the base of my brain. The scent hit me before he even spoke—a cloying mix of expensive bay rum and the metallic tang of gun oil. It was a smell that had haunted the hallways of my childhood, the olfactory herald of a coming storm. I could feel the heat radiating from him, a predatory presence that made the very air in the room feel heavy and suffocating.

"Still making scenes, Elowen?" Dale’s voice was a low, cultured purr, devoid of any warmth. "I see your manners haven’t improved in my absence. Running away from your own family to hide in the dark. It’s pathetic. Always were the weak link, weren't you?"

I couldn't breathe. My lungs felt like they had been filled with concrete. I stared through the glass at Jace, who was lifting Blake onto his shoulders. My brother—my protector—was twenty feet away, and he might as well have been on the moon. The festive lights from the garden party blurred into a dizzying smear of gold. I watched the way Arthur rested a steady, loving hand on Jace’s shoulder, a gesture of fatherly pride that I knew was driving the man behind me into a quiet, murderous frenzy. To Dale, love was a transactional weakness, and seeing it displayed so openly was a personal insult to his philosophy of power.

"Three!"

"Don't cry," Dale hissed, the barrel of the gun grinding into my skull as my first sob broke silently. "It’s insulting. You think those tears make you look like a victim? They make you look like a failure. You were always so proud of that brain of yours, so 'independent.' Look at you now. Trembling because a man is standing behind you. You’re nothing without the cage I built for you. You were always a project I never quite finished, a piece of marble that refused to take the shape I demanded. But even marble can be pulverized."

I watched my mother. She was laughing at something Arthur had said, her face glowing with a peace she had spent a decade fighting to earn. She looked younger, lighter. The sight of her happiness felt like a knife in my gut, because I knew it was about to be obliterated. She looked so safe, surrounded by the Vances and her grown sons, unaware that the monster who had nearly dismantled her soul was breathing the same winter air.

"Look at them," Dale whispered, his breath hot against my ear, smelling of cigarettes and malice. "Playing house with that... placeholder. Arthur. A mediocre man for a mediocre family. They’ve forgotten the weight of a real father’s hand. They’ve forgotten who they belong to. But you didn't forget, did you, Ellie? You were always the smartest. The one who knew I’d never truly let go of what’s mine. They think they found a new king, but they only found a babysitter."

His hand moved, fingers ghosting over my shoulder, and I flinched so hard the gun clicked against my bone. He chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "See? The body remembers. Your mind tries to play at being a woman, but your nerves are still that eleven-year-old girl waiting for the belt. You are an Echo, Elowen. Nothing more than a vibration of the sound I made years ago."

"Two!"

The pressure of the gun increased, forcing me onto my tiptoes. I saw Grant scan the room through the glass, his brow furrowing as he looked for me. He nudged Owen, pointing toward the den. My heart screamed for them to run, to stay away, to call the guards—but my throat was a desert. I wanted to tell them that the shadows had finally grown tall enough to swallow us all, that the ghost had finally found its flesh again.

"You thought you won," Dale said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, jagged edge. "You thought that little 'incident' when you were thirteen was your liberation. It wasn't. It was just a down payment. You’re a broken thing, Elowen. A flawed, brilliant little mirror that I’m finally going to smash."

He leaned in closer, pressing his cheek against mine so I could feel the stubble of his jaw. "I’ve watched you. I’ve watched your little successes, your papers, your awards. Every time you succeeded, you were just proving how well I trained you. You think you did that for yourself? No. You did that because you were terrified of being average. You were terrified of being like her." He gestured vaguely toward my mother. "A decorative nothing."

"One!"

The anticipation outside reached a fever pitch. I saw Naomi pull Ivy closer, shielding her eyes from the expected flash. Elias and Simone were laughing, holding each other. The Vances stood like a wall of protection around my family, but none of them were looking at the window. None of them saw the wolf in the parlor.

"Happy New Year, little bird," Dale breathed.

The world exploded.

A massive shell of gold and crimson light burst over the estate, illuminating the den in a strobe-light flicker of violent color. The boom shook the floorboards, a physical shockwave that coincided with the family’s triumphant scream of "Zero!" It was a sound of absolute unity, a chorus of voices celebrating a future that was currently being held hostage by a ghost from the past.

The sky turned a brilliant, electric violet, casting long, distorted shadows across the bookshelves and the heavy oak desk. In the sudden wash of light, I saw my mother turn.

She wasn't celebrating anymore. Her eyes were searching the glass, hunting for the daughter who hadn't come back out. The fireworks reflected in the windowpane, creating a chaotic overlay of fire and shadow, making the glass look like it was bleeding sparks. For a heartbeat, she squinted, her eyes tracking the movement in the darkened room.

Then, she saw us.

She saw the silhouette of the man she thought was gone forever—the man who had carved scars into her children’s lives with the precision of a surgeon. She saw the glint of the silver handgun pressed against the head of her youngest child. She saw the predator’s grin on the face of the man she once called husband.

The joy didn't just leave her face; it was erased, replaced by a raw, primal vacuum of terror. Her glass of champagne slipped from her nerveless fingers, shattering silently on the stone terrace as the sky turned a bruised, sickly green. I watched her mouth open, the triumph of the new year turning into a silent, jagged line of agony. The next firework—a screaming white willow—lit up the terrace as she lunged toward the glass, her hands clawing at the air like a woman drowning in shallow water. Her face contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror as the first scream finally tore from her throat, a sound that bypassed the ears and went straight into the marrow of my bones.