Page 83 of After All This Time

There it is—the snap. My jaw locks so tight that it aches, my breath slicing through my chest like a blade, and before I can stop myself, words fueled by pure rage explode out of me.

"You don't think growing up without a mother was punishment enough? You think being left withyouwas a life I wanted?"

"I gave you everything," he snaps, his voice rising with indignant righteousness as if that erases the years of neglect.

"You gave me things," I bite back, leaning forward, palms flat against the desk. "Did you ever show me love? Or compassion? How about basic fucking care? No. The only thing you've ever cared about is your job and getting someone way too fucking young for you to suck you off."

"Watch your goddamn mouth," he growls, standing, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"Or what? What are you gonna do, old man?" I straighten up, towering over him, my fury burning hotter as his face hardens. He doesn't answer, but his silence says everything. "You realize I'm only here for Mills, don't you? And maybe Kayla—because at least she treats me with some respect."

"She feels the same way I do about your lack of responsibility and family commitment," he sneers, throwing Kayla into his line of fire like that'll somehow cut deeper.

It doesn't.

"Then she can tell me that herself, and if she does, I'll say the same thing I'm saying to you." I turn and walk away, my pulse pounding in my ears.

"You'd better not cause an issue tonight! You'll shelf this shit, do you hear me?" He calls out, the threat echoing down the hall

"Don't I always?" I hurl the words over my shoulder, refusing to pause or give him the satisfaction of looking back.

Asshole.

When I get back to my room, I slam the door shut and throw myself on the bed, my body still vibrating with anger. My mind drifts to the question I've asked myself too many times—how could my mom have ever left me withthatpiece of shit?

Because she's an even bigger piece of shit for leaving in the first place.

Chapter 32

Tobias

The only way I get through these moments with my dad is by not caring. I've numbed myself to it because this is just how it goes.

Every. Single. Time.

We fight, I tell him to fuck off, and then we rinse and repeat at the next family event. It's a predictable, broken record I've learned to live with because I know it will never change.

Not until he's six feet under, or I stop showing up at these things entirely.

I'm only here for Mills. She doesn't have the best relationship with her mom, and being stuck here can't be easy. Maybe that's why we've always gravitated toward each other in this house. It's like we carve out a little space where all the family bullshit doesn't matter. She gets me in a way no one else here does—probably because she's fighting her own war with a parent who thinks love means control.

Kayla's fine, I guess. She's not my dad, which is a point in her favor, but she's still got her issues. She tries to run Amelia's life like my dad tries to run mine, but it's different. Where my dad couldn't care less about my personal life, Kayla's the opposite. She wants to know Amelia's every move—part control freak, part helicopter parent. It's like she's trying to sculpt Amelia into a perfect little version of herself, whether Amelia wants it or not.

And it's not that Amelia and I talk about it openly. We don't have to. There's an unspoken understanding between us, a shared frustration with the roles we're expected to play. Maybe that's why, when everything else about these gatherings feels suffocating, she's the one person who makes it bearable.

Tonight, I'm dressed in a navy suit with a crisp white shirt, a far cry from my usual wardrobe of black jeans and a T-shirt that's seen better days. But I'd rather endure a wardrobe change than Kayla's inevitable passive-aggressive comments about "presentation" and "respecting the occasion."

The first couple of buttons on my shirt are undone, just enough to reveal a glimpse of the ink that crawls up my chest and onto my neck. It's a subtle rebellion—a quiet fuck-you to this entire house and a reminder that no matter how much they try to polish me up, I'm still me underneath.

Satisfied I've done enough to meet the bare minimum without completely selling my soul, I step out of my room and knock on Amelia's door, waiting until I hear her voice from the other side.

"Come in," she calls, and the sound sends a small tug through me before I push the door open and step inside.

Mistake.

Huge fucking error.

Amelia's dark-brown hair cascades down her exposed back, shimmering with subtle golden highlights. Her skintight black dress is pure devastation—falling effortlessly to the floor and clinging to her body like it was made for her.

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