Page 68 of Left-Hand Larceny
She hummed. “I know. You always say that, but it’s a shame. You two were such a lovely couple. I always thought—well. Never mind. Just try to be gracious, okay? He works with dad, now.”
There it was. The reminder. Keep the peace. Keep your voice down. Be agreeable. Be good.
“I will,” I said, because that’s what I always say.
She moved on to some comment about the florist they’d chosen, but I’d already drifted—mind wandering somewhere dark and familiar. Christian in my bedroom, arms crossed, mouth tight, telling me to change my clothes. Christian in the car, mocking how I spoke. Christian pulling away in public, then gripping my wrist a little too hard when no one else could see. Yelling at me for leaving cabinets open, for cooking a meal he didn’t like, for making plans without him.
And me. Smiling. Laughing. Making excuses.
He was overworked.
Overtired.
His parents were not nice people.
It was my fault because I knew better. Could have tried harder.
I wasn’t giving him what he needed. I could fix that.
God, I hate that part the most.
When the call ended, I stood in front of the kitchen counter and just stared at my phone, heart thudding, fingers twitching. I dumped my coffee down the drain, convinced I couldn’t keep it down if I tried.
Ten deep breaths, two grounding exercises, and one near panic attack later had me scrolling toward Ragnar’s contact. I almost texted him. Almost asked if he’d go to the Gala with me. He’d have said yes. No hesitation. He’d wear a suit and that unreadable expression he gets when he’s protecting something that matters. He wouldn’t let Christian get near me. He’d notice—somehow, without me saying a word—and he’d stand between us like a wall of calm, red-bearded defiance.
But then what?
Then he’d know.
Or he’d guess. And I don’t want that either.
I don’t want him to look at me the way I sometimes look myself. Like I’m broken, or fragile, or easy to hurt. I don’t want to bring him into the mess of who I used to be. Of what I let happen. Of what I never told anyone.
So I don’t text.
I just stood there in the quiet, choking on shame and the aching want for someone to hold my hand without asking why.
Because Christian works with them, my parents. His mother is my mom’s best friend. Because he’s ingrained in their social circles and they don’t see it—the manipulation, the lies, the little sharp-edged comments that used to leave me crying in locked bathrooms and questioning my sanity.
I didn’t tell them because I didn’t want to start a war. Because I thought I could handle it on my own. And now I’m the one stuck playing nice with a man who made me small every day I was with him. If I don’t, my parents will know something’s wrong. And if they ask, I might tell them. And if I tell them, everything will change.
Not just for me.
For them.
They’ll have to choose. And I don’t know if they’ll choose me. I’m afraid to give them the chance to side with him.
So I have to smile.
I have to be polite. Distant, but not rude. Aloof, but not cold.
I have to make it through the night without drawing attention, without making a scene, without unraveling.
I have to spend the entire evening avoiding Christian while pretending I’m not avoiding him. Just the thought of it makes my stomach twist into something hard and tight.
Pretending all the time is exhausting.
Pretending to like my program. Pretending I love this job. Pretending I’m still the girl they raised and not someone holding herself together with breath mints and anxiety and a secret pink streak in her braid.
