Page 50 of The Reckoning
“No, just the people who matter,” he fires back, each word a bullet aimed at my chest. “Just the ones making decisions about Lilian’s life, her health, her future. Just the ones who kept me locked away for years while you lived the golden fucking life.”
And there it is—the raw, festering wound between us, the poisoned root from which all our conflicts grow.
“I didn’t know about you,” I remind him, my voice taking on the razor edge that seems reserved exclusively for these confrontations. “I didn’t choose any of this.”
“Didn’t you?” He steps closer, eyes—my eyes—burning with an accusation that feels like acid. “You’ve been the perfect Hayes heir for years. Never questioning, never pushing back. Just following Richard’s blueprint like the good little soldier you are.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me or the choices I’ve made,” I snap, hands curling into fists so tight my nails cut into my palms. “You’ve been watching from the shadows, building your little revenge fantasy, thinking you understand everything when you?—”
“STOP IT!” Lilian’s voice explodes between us, raw and cracked with emotion. “Both of you, just stop!”
We turn to her, twin expressions of surprise quickly replaced by concern as we take in her face—flushed with anger, eyes bright with tears that refuse to fall. She looks seconds away from shattering.
“I can’t deal with this right now,” she continues, pushing herself up from the couch, swaying slightly with exhaustion. “My mother has legal control over my body. Donors are waiting for the results of some mysterious procedure they want to perform on me. My entire life has been a carefully constructed lie, and you two want to stand here measuring dicks over who had it worse?”
The vulgarity, so jarring coming from her usually careful mouth, hits us both like a slap.
“I’m going to bed,” she announces, moving toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Feel free to continue tearing each other apart, but do it somewhere I can’t hear you.” She stalks away, shoulders rigid with tension, leaving us staring after her, momentarily united in our shock at her outburst.
The bedroom door slams, the sound reverberating through the warehouse like a gunshot.
“Well fucking done,” Arson says after a moment, the sarcasm cutting enough to draw blood.
“Me? You’re the one who?—”
I stop myself, recognizing the trap we’re falling into again. This endless cycle of blame and counter-blame, this vicious merry-go-round of hatred and resentment. It accomplishes nothing and helps no one—least of all Lilian.
“This isn’t helping,” I say instead, running a hand through my hair, tugging at it hard enough to hurt. “She needs us unified, not at each other’s throats.”
Something shifts in Arson’s expression—not softening, exactly, but a fractional easing of the constant hostility, like apredator deciding to postpone a kill rather than abandon it. “For once, we agree.”
We stand in awkward silence for a moment, neither knowing quite how to proceed in this fragile truce. The air between us feels electrified, charged with the potential for violence. Finally, Arson breaks the silence with a sigh that sounds like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling.
“I’m going to order food,” he says, pulling out his phone. “She hasn’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Pizza,” I say automatically. “Margherita with extra basil. It’s her favorite, and after everything, she could use some good comfort food.”
He gives me a look I can’t quite interpret—surprise, perhaps, that I know this detail, or irritation that I knew it before him. His jaw tightens, but all he says is, “Fine. Pizza it is.”
While he makes the call, I move toward the bedroom where Lilian has retreated. I pause at the door, uncertain of my welcome after her outburst. After a moment’s hesitation, I knock softly, the sound barely audible even to me.
“Lilian? It’s me.”
No answer. I try again, a little louder, tamping down the surge of anxiety her silence triggers. “Lilian? Can I come in?”
“It’s not locked.” Her voice is muffled through the door, heavy with exhaustion and something else—something that sounds like defeat.
I enter cautiously to find her curled on her side on the bed, facing away from the door. She doesn’t turn when I approach, but I can see the tension in her shoulders and the way her hand grips the pillow in a white-knuckled fist, like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, perching on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under my weight. “About the arguing. About all of it.”
“I know,” she replies, her voice small and scraped raw. “I just can’t be the referee right now. I don’t have the energy.”
“You shouldn’t have to be,” I agree, tentatively reaching out to touch her shoulder. When she doesn’t pull away, I grow bolder, letting my hand slide up to her hair. “We’re supposed to be helping you, not adding to your burden.”
She makes a small sound, something between acknowledgment and pain, but leans into my touch ever so slightly. Encouraged, I begin to comb my fingers through her hair, the way I used to when she’d have anxiety attacks during thunderstorms. The soft strands slide between my fingers, familiar yet different now—like everything between us. There’s an intimacy to the gesture that makes my heart ache.
“Arson’s ordering pizza,” I tell her, focusing on the tangible, the immediate. “Margherita with extra basil.”
