Page 11 of The Fight

“Trust me, I am aware. So is he,” I let out on a huff.

“Blair, oh my God. You almost fucked your brother.”

I hold up my hand. “Step, Hannah.Stepbrother. And please don’t remind me.”

She shakes her head. “That’s really fucked-up.”

I take another drag. “Who you telling?”

The conversation fizzles out, and we sit in a comfortable silence. I’m not sure how long we sit, but by the time I’m finally ready to go home, it’s dark, and I’m high.

This is insane.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SHAY

Isit in my room, staring blankly out the window. For days, I’ve been trying to process what the fuck has happened—the dinner, the engagement, Blair. All of it. It feels like some sort of bad dream I can’t wake up from. I haven’t really talked to my dad since that night at the country club either. He’s tried a few times, but what’s the point? Nothing I say is going to change the shit he’s already put in place.

I’ve just moved in silence, minding my own business and staying away from home as much as I can. This place is more a museum than a home since Mom died anyway. No one really lives here; we just… exist. Sleek lines, polished surfaces. The kind of place anyone would be proud to flaunt, but it lacks any warmth. Mom took that with her when she died.

A knock on my door snaps me from my thoughts. I don’t bother getting up. I already know who it is.

“Come in,” I say, my voice flat.

The door opens, and my dad steps in, looking as put together as ever in his tailored designer suit. He stands there for a moment, letting his eyes scan the room before they land on me.

“We need to talk,” he says. “About Sylvia and Blair.”

I exhale sharply. “What about them?”

“They’re moving in today, and I wanted to let you know so you’re not caught off guard. They’ll be here soon.”

I stare at him. “Today? You didn’t think to mention this before?”

He sighs with a hint of frustration. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you, Shay. I know this isn’t easy, but it’s happening. Sylvia will be in the room with me, and Blair will be next door to you.”

Great. Things just went from bad to worse. It’s not enough that they’re getting married. Now, they’re going to be living here, reminding me every day of this fucking mess.

I don’t say anything. I just nod.

My dad looks at me for a second longer as if he’s waiting for some sort of response, but I’ve got nothing to say. Eventually, he turns and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Sitting there, I let my mind race. Blair. Here. Under the same roof. If it’s so obvious for me to see what she’s trying to do, why isn’t it as clear for my dad? Maybe if I told him she basically let me fuck her, he would change his mind about this whole thing. A scandal like that could ruin what he’s worked so hard to build. It can ruin my comfortable life.

Standing from my bed, I let out a groan. I know I’m expected to play nice, but how is that even possible when it’s clear this girl knows how to push my buttons? Looking at the corner of my dresser, I see her shoes—the ones she left at the country club when I confronted her. I scoff and move to them.

They’re simple black strappy heels. There is nothing significant about them, but I’m about to use them as averysignificant message. I want her to know that even if it’s been days of radio silence, I meant every word I said. I’ll fucking destroy her.

I pick them up off the ground and hook them onto my fingers before leaving my room. Closing my door behind me, I slinkslowly toward the one next door. When I push it open, I see it’s bare, just like everything else in this house. Nothing but a neatly made bed with fluffy white linen, a dresser, and a closet. There are no personal touches. No posters, no clothes, no bullshit from her. Not yet anyway.

Not even bothering to step further into her room, I hang the heels on the handle. She’ll get the message loud and clear, I’m sure.

As I turn to head back to my room, I hear the front door open downstairs and the distant sound of tires on gravel. I step toward the railing and peer out the window positioned above the front door as a small, blue Honda comes to a halt at the end of the steps out front.

Leaning over, I rest the backs of my forearms on the rail and clasp my fingers. My dad is by it in an instant, opening the driver’s door.

First, Sylvia steps out. I can see her mouth moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. A second later, Blair is emerging from the passenger side and circling the front of the car. She stops by her mom and surveys around her. Her head swivels as she looks behind her down our drive, then back to the front of the house. Her eyes travel up the face of it, taking in the white brick and large stone steps before they stop when she makes it to the open door and catches my gaze.

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