“You were terrible.”
He let that sit. “Yes.”
I leaned back, anger returning in a steadier form. “Do you know what hurt most? Not the breakup. Not even the accusations. It was that you knew me well enough to know greed disgusts me, and you still believed the worst version of me because it matched your fear.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re right.”
I almost laughed at how unsatisfying simple agreement could be.
He glanced at the bakery box he had brought and carried in with him. “The cake is still in my car, by the way.”
“Ethan.”
“I know. Not the point.”
Silence again.
Then I said, “My grandmother’s attorney called.”
His expression sharpened instantly. “About the estate?”
“You know about that too?”
“I know there were old clauses designed to protect you. I don’t know details.”
I told him enough to wipe the color from his face. When I finished, he exhaled and looked toward the lobby windows.
“This is bigger than I thought,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Will you go after them?”
The question landed heavier than he intended.
Not legally—I would do what was necessary there. He meant emotionally, publicly, decisively. Would I finally stop protecting people who had never protected me?
I thought about my mother’s tears, my father’s silence, Chloe’s permanent hunger for what was mine. I thought about my grandmother, who had prepared for this with the weary foresight of a woman who understood her descendants too well.
“I’m not going after them,” I said. “I’m stepping out of the path and letting consequences hit.”
