Chapter 85 The Breaking Point
The library was the most formal room in the house—a place of dark mahogany and a silence that felt heavy with the weight of generations. Arthur had requested we all gather there for a "family update," but the air was already thick with the jagged wall of resentment the brothers had built toward Rhys.
Rhys stood by the window, his arms crossed, looking more like a target than a guest. He didn't look at the brothers. He didn't look at the leather-bound books. His eyes were fixed on me, dark and unreadable, carrying a weight that felt older than the "engagement" we were faking.
“Arthur, please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Honey, don’t. Not like this.”
My stepfather offered her a weak, hollow smile. He reached out, gently brushing her cheek with his thumb in a gesture that looked more like a goodbye than a comfort. “We must tell them, Cass,” he said firmly.
My mother let out a defeated sigh, her shoulders slumping as tears began to brim, threatening to spill over.
“What is this whole ‘family update’ about anyway?” Owen’s voice boomed, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. He leaned against a bookshelf, his jaw set. “Is it really necessary? Finch targeting our baby sister because of him should be our top priority.” He jerked his chin toward Rhys, who remained a silent shadow by the window.
“Finch can wait,” Arthur stated coolly, completely ignoring the jab at Rhys.
My three brothers stared at him incredulously. The idea of anything taking precedence over a direct threat to the family was unthinkable in this house.
“What could possibly be more important than Finch?” Grant questioned, his voice tight with rising frustration.
“Dale,” Arthur retorted flatly.
The name hit the room like a concussive blast. Owen’s laptop nearly slid off his lap. Jace stood up so fast his chair screeched against the hardwood. Cassandra’s tea rattled in its saucer as her hands began to shake
Owen’s laptop nearly slid off his lap. Jace stood up so fast his chair screeched against the hardwood. My mother’s tea rattled in its saucer as her hands began to shake.
"He's out?" Jace’s voice was a strangled roar. "He hunted her through this house like an animal! He cornered her in that kitchen while we were out—he put a knife in his own thirteen-year-old daughter—and they just opened the gates because the clock ran out?"
My hand instinctively went to my left side, my fingers pressing through the fabric of my shirt to the jagged, silvered line of the scar on my abdomen. I had known this day was coming. I’d counted the months like a prisoner myself. But hearing it spoken into the air made the reality physical.
Suddenly, the library floor seemed to liquefy beneath my feet. A high-pitched ringing started in my ears, drowning out Jace’s shouting. I tried to draw a breath, but my ribs felt like they had been replaced by iron bands, tightening with every heartbeat. I wasn't in the library anymore; I was back on the linoleum, the copper scent of my own blood filling my nose.
"Ellie? You’re turning grey," Grant’s voice came from somewhere far away.
I couldn't respond. My vision began to tunnel until all I could see was the flickering shadow of the fireplace. I knew my father. I knew the look in his eyes when the judge handed down the sentence—it wasn't remorse; it was a tally.
"He isn't going to go find a job or move to another state," I whispered, the words finally breaking through the paralysis of my throat. I looked up, my eyes darting between my brothers and Rhys. "You think he’s finished?"
I gripped the back of a leather armchair until my knuckles turned white. "He isn't just out. He’s coming back here. He’s coming back to finish what he started that night."
The silence that followed was more terrifying than the shouting. Rhys took a single step toward me, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out, his expression a mask of controlled fury.
"He won't get within ten miles of this property," Rhys said, his voice a low, vibrating growl.
"You don't know him," I choked out, a single tear escaping. "He doesn't care about your security or your money. He only cares about the girl who got away."
I remembered the scuffle. I remembered the noise after he... after I fell. Someone was there. Someone stayed.
I looked at the floor, lost in the memory of a voice. A voice that had been a frantic, broken whisper against my ear while the world went gray. Stay with me baby... El... please stay with me. I had always assumed it was Jace. Or maybe Grant. I looked up and caught Rhys’s gaze. For a split second, the mask of the cool, detached CEO cracked. In his eyes, I didn't see the man who had traded his soul for a tech empire. I saw a ghost. I saw the raw, bleeding trauma of a boy who had walked into a kitchen and found a nightmare.
Rhys took a step toward me, then stopped, his jaw tight enough to snap. He didn't say a word about that night. He didn't tell me it was his hands that had been covered in my blood, or his voice that had begged me to keep breathing while he fought to keep my father away from me.
"He won't get near her again," Rhys said. His voice wasn't a roar like Jace's. It was a low, terrifying promise that made the air in the room feel cold. "I don't care what the DOC paperwork says. Dale is a dead man if he crosses the state line."
"You don't get to make that promise, Rhys," Owen snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
"I was there, Owen," Rhys cut him off, his voice like a blade. "I am always there."
He looked back at me, and the phantom sensation of those whispered words—Stay with me, El—brushed against my mind like a brand. I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, wondering for the first time if the man I was pretending to love was the same person who had saved my life when I was just a girl in a blood-stained kitchen.