Page 69 of Deceit & Desire

The room smelled sterile, like it was trying too hard to be clean, to erase all traces of pain. But no amount of disinfectant could scrub away the shadows stretching across the walls or the ones clinging to my thoughts.

I adjusted the blanket over my legs, my fingers curling into the rough fabric as if it could anchor me. The tension in the room felt like it could snap in half, and I wasn’t sure if the weight on my chest came from the sterile air or the knowledge of what had been done to me. To Missy. To all of us.

Then Michael Carter stepped into the doorway, and the weight doubled, crashing down on me like a tidal wave. My lungs seized, anger tightening around my ribs. His appearance felt like an insult, a ghost dragged into the light after years of tormenting me from the shadows.

I stiffened instinctively, my defenses snapping into place. I didn’t even realize I’d done it until Roman’s hand brushed my shoulder. That simple, steady touch grounded me, a reminder that I wasn’t facing this alone.

Michael looked hesitant, unsure of himself in a way I’d never seen before. That, in itself, was unnerving. Michael Carter was the poster boy for confidence—righteous, indignant, unflinching. And yet, as he stepped farther into the room, his shoulders hunched and his hands twitched at his sides like he couldn’t figure out what to do with them. He wasn’t just awkward. He was afraid.

Good. He should be.

“Zoe,” he said, his voice rough, like it physically hurt to force the words out. “I—I wasn’t sure if I should come, but I had to. I owe you?—”

“No.” The word cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. My voice burned in my raw throat, but I didn’t care. “You don’t get to show up here and act like you’ve suddenly grown a conscience. You’ve had years to make this right, Michael. Years.”

His shoulders slumped under the weight of my words, but his expression didn’t waver. His blue eyes held something I hadn’t seen in a long time—determination. Roman shifted beside me, folding his arms, the muscles in his forearms flexing with barely contained tension.

“Carter,” Roman growled, his voice low and dangerous, like a warning bell. “You’d better tread carefully.”

Michael flinched but stepped farther into the room, his movements deliberate but shaky. It was like he’d convinced himself to walk into a firing squad and wasn’t about to back down, no matter how much sense it might make for him to turn tail and run.

“You’re right,” he admitted, and the rawness in his voice caught me off guard. “I don’t deserve to be here. But I had to come. I owe you an apology.”

The laugh that escaped my lips was bitter, sharp, and a little bit unhinged.

“An apology? For what, exactly?” I snapped. “For spending years dragging my name through the mud? For letting everyone in town think I was a murderer? Or for believing Cody’s bullshit instead of actually listening to me? Pick one, Michael, because there’s a lot you should be sorry for.”

His jaw tightened, and I saw his hands twitch again at his sides like he was fighting the urge to react. For a moment, he just stood there, silent, staring at me with that same haunted look. It was a look I’d seen before, but not like this. Not from him. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked under the weight of his regret.

“For all of it,” he said, the words heavy, dragging him down like an anchor.

I snorted and rolled my eyes, but he plowed on.

“I let Cody manipulate me. I let my grief blind me. Losing Missy—” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard, his hands curling into fists. “It broke me, Zoe. But blaming you didn’t fix anything. It just made everything worse.”

The hospital blanket was rough beneath my fingers as I gripped it tighter, my nails digging into the fabric. My throat burned with unspoken words, but I forced them out, anyway.

“You think that’s enough?” I demanded, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady. “You think telling me this now makes any of it okay? While you were busy letting your grief poison everything, I was trying to rebuild my life. Do you even know what it felt like to hear whispers every time I called home? To know what people were saying—what you were saying?”

Michael’s eyes dropped, the weight of my words crushing him visibly.

“I do now,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I hate myself for every second of it. Cody lied to my damn face for years, Zoe. He told me you—” His voice faltered, and he looked away, shame painting his features. “He let me think it was you, all to keep his hands clean. And I believed him. I believed him, and I let my anger ruin you.”

The words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around my chest.

“And now what?” I asked, my voice sharp and cold. “You’re here because you finally figured out the truth? After all this time, you suddenly decided to listen?”

“Yes,” he said, the single word carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. “Yes, Zoe. Cody lied, and I was too blind to see it. He killed her—Missy. And he stood back while I destroyed you for it.”

Something shifted in me then, not softening but narrowing, honing in on the heart of this mess.

“Why were you so sure someone killed her?” I demanded, my voice cutting through his guilt. “The official story was suicide. Why couldn’t you believe it?”

Michael stiffened, his expression twisting into something raw and painful. His mouth opened, then closed, as if he wasn’t sure he could say it aloud. Finally, his voice broke through the tension, quiet and trembling. “Because of my father.”

The air thickened as his words settled in the room.

“Your father?” I repeated, my brows furrowing.

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