Page 127 of Scarred in Silence
We walk toward the door like we’re walking into a battlefield—and maybe we are.
Except this time, I’m not the casualty.
I’m the fucking reckoning.
* * *
Their house hasn’t changed.
The driveway is still perfect. The hedges are trimmed like the world might end if a leaf dares go rogue. The same bricks, same cream columns. Same sterile coldness that looks expensive but feels like abandonment.
Lucien’s hand hovers over the small of my back as we walk up the steps. He doesn’t touch me—doesn’t have to. His presence is enough.
I rang the bell two minutes ago. They knew I was coming. This silence is a choice.
The door finally creaks open.
Verona stands there in pearls and disappointment, her expression frozen in that tight-lipped socialite smile she saves for church and charity fundraisers.
Her eyes skim me, pausing for just a moment too long on the platinum hair and black leather jacket.
“Well,” she says flatly. “You look…”
“Alive?” I offer, tilting my head. “I know. Tragic, right?”
She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.
Gideon appears behind her, still in a pressed shirt, sleeves rolled precisely two cuffs. He doesn’t offer a hug. No warmth. Just a judgmental once-over, the same look he used to give me before locking the bathroom cabinet.
“I see you arrived on time,” he says, eyes narrowing on Lucien.
“You know Lucien,” I say evenly. “You know—my sentence.”
Lucien smirks, stepping forward and extending a hand that neither of them takes.
“We’re here because Astra thought she owed you this,” he says, voice smooth as smoke but sharp enough to cut arteries.
Verona steps aside without a word. We follow her into the sitting room—the one with untouched furniture and shelves of books no one ever reads. I haven’t been here in weeks, but it feels like no time has passed at all.
Except me. I passed. I burned through time like a match.
I sit on the edge of the antique sofa. Lucien remains standing.
“So,” Verona begins, crossing one leg over the other. “How long do we have to pretend this isn’t some cry for attention?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t act surprised, darling,” she says, voice brittle and bored. “The hair. The outfit. The man. It’s all performance art, and frankly, I expected something more original.”
Lucien stiffens beside me. I place a hand on his thigh—not to calm him, but to anchor myself.
“This isn’t a performance,” I say. “This is who I am now.”
Gideon snorts. “You expect us to believe that? After everything you’ve done? Running off, whoring yourself out, overdosing in God knows where—and now you come here like we’re supposed to applaud the act?”
My fingers curl into fists in my lap. “I didn’t come for applause. I came to see if there was anything left in this house besides hypocrisy and vodka breath.”
Verona flinches, but Gideon just laughs.
