Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
“We’ve got a week,” Arson says, stopping by the window. The fading daylight carves harsh shadows across his face—my face, but twisted with a darkness I recognize in my worst moments, in my darkest thoughts. “Seven days to figure out what sick shit they’re planning and how to stop it. Not to mention the five days left we have to bring down Richard.”
“And to find out more about my father,” Lilian adds, her voice smaller now, more vulnerable.
“Your father?” I turn to her, caught off guard. “David? Why bring him up now?”
“Because whatever’s happening now, I think it might be connected to him somehow,” she explains, eyes fixed on some distant point, seeing ghosts. “He died when I was so young, right after my diagnosis. Well, left first. Then…car accident, I think. Mother’s always been vague about the details.”
“With good reason, probably,” Arson mutters, his lips curling in a sneer. “Ten to one he either knew too much or didn’t agree with whatever fucked-up thing they were planning, so they found a way to make him disappear.”
“Or he really did die in that car accident like your mother said,” I suggest, repeating the story Patricia had told over the years. Even as I say it, doubt curdles in my stomach. “Not everything is a conspiracy.”
Arson snorts, the sound dripping with contempt. “Do you really believe that shit? After everything we’ve learned about the family and their lies?”
“I’m saying we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” I reply, frustration building like a pressure cooker about to blow. “Not everyone is part of some grand conspiracy.”
“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 a predator 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.”