Page 29 of October
He leaned forward. "Think about it. That party is the perfect stage. If he really wants to protect the illusion, he'll double down. He'll parade Laura as your plus-one again—tighten the narrative. Smile for the cameras. Maybe even overcorrect with your mother, just to kill any suspicion. The whole 'devoted husband' performance or show affection to another woman, not Laura."
It made my skin crawl. "So what?" I asked. "I'm supposed to just... stand there? Smile while he gaslights my mother? Pretend Laura means something to me when I can barely look at her?"
Langley's voice was calm, controlled.
"Yes. For now. Because if you shift too suddenly, they'll know something's wrong. If you push Laura away, if you stop playing the part, they'll get nervous. Defensive. They'll cover their tracks. We don't want that. We want them confident. Careless."
I looked away. My throat felt tight, my hands fists in my lap.
"So I'm just supposed to let him humiliate her? Keep lying to my mother's face?" Langley's expression softened, but only just.
"Thomas, I'm not asking you to lie forhim.I'm asking you to lethimlie, while we watch. Let him dig the hole deeper. The closer he thinks he is to winning, the louder his mistakes will get. That party? That's not a celebration—it's a trap."
I stayed silent, jaw clenched.
"Play along," he said again, voice like cold steel. "Because when it breaks, it has to breakloudly.Publicly. And onyourterms, not his."
"This isn't just about my parents anymore," I said, voice low. "October's going to be there. She's already hurting.. That maybe therewassomething between Laura and me. If I play along... I'll be hurting her even more.."
Langley's eyes sharpened, calculating, "Then make it count," he said. "If you're going to hurt her by staying in this, make sure it leads somewhere. Make sure it's not for nothing."
That sat like lead in my gut. I could survive being used by my father. I could survive being cast as the fool. But watching October's heart break quietly in a room full of liars?
How could I come back from that?
The Birthday Party..
When October bolted, her heels clicking fast against the stone walkway, her shoulders stiff, her breath sharp and uneven, I ran after her without thinking. Panic and shame churned in my chest like a storm.
I called her name once—twice—but she didn't stop. Didn't even glance back. The way she moved, like she couldn't get away from me fast enough, told me everything. I had failed her. Not just tonight. Long before that. I had stood still while the lie grew around us, and now I was chasing after the woman I loved like I was chasing after a ghost.
My wife was leaving me, and I knew deep down that this might be it. Even if I'd already made the decision to distance myself from Laura, it might not matter anymore. The damage could already be done, too visible, too loud, too late to undo. The air outside was cool and damp with evening. The manicured hedges blurred past me as I jogged down the curved path toward the gate, but then I saw her.
My mother.
She stood motionless just beyond the circle of porch light, half-shrouded in shadows. Alone. Her arms crossed over her chest, her face unreadable. For the first time in my life, she didn't look like she belonged in the house behind her. She looked like she was keeping vigil outside it.
"She left," she said quietly.
I stopped short, breath catching. "I know. I need to go after her. I have to talk to her. I need to explain that I'm not with Laura, that I never—"
She cut me off with a strange, hollow laugh. It wasn't bitter. It was tired. Worn out. She turned her face toward me, "Thomas," she said, softly but clearly. "I know. Trust me. I knoweverything."
I stared at her, stunned. Her gaze shifted toward the house. Her voice dropped into something quieter, colder.
"I think it's time he pays for it. For all of it."
Then she turned her eyes on me, sharp, hard, deadly still. It wasn't the look of a mother. Not the one I remembered. Not the warm smile she wore at garden parties, or the tight-lipped patience she used to wield like armor when my father spoke over her at dinner. This wasn't the pearl-clad diplomat. This wasn't the poised hostess who smoothed tension with a smile and carried a thousand bruises in silence, all in the name of keeping the family whole.
No. This was someone else. This was the woman beneath all that, stripped bare of pretense, hollowed out by years of deception, and finally done pretending she couldn't taste the rot in her own home. The fury behind her eyes wasn't loud. It was quieter than rage. But heavier. Like a loaded gun resting on the table between us. She looked at me, and I could feel every year she'd spent swallowing betrayal like glass, shards of it lodged in her throat, and for the first time, I saw what it looked like when someone stopped choking and started sharpening the edges instead.
"I'm working on it, Mom," I said, my voice low, a whisper laced with heat, brittle with the weight of everything I hadn't said before. It wasn't just an answer. It was a vow. A quiet, burning promise buried beneath years of silence and resentment.
She didn't nod. She didn't soften. She turned, slowly, deliberately, and started to walk away. Then she stopped. Without looking back, she said it like a verdict:
"Good. I'm in."
Perfect. Then let his crown fall—and may it cut on the way down.
