Page 35 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
“I’m sorry,” I say, watching her closely.
“He survived,” she says, swallowing hard. “But barely. He was in a coma for months after and when he finally woke up, well he’s not the same person he was. And everything after that was just… hell.”
She fidgets with the coffee spoon, spinning it slowly, hitting the edge of her empty cup in a way that slices through the quiet with a sharp ping.
“He’s got a spinal injury. Some brain trauma. His speech is slow now. He can’t walk without assistance. He forgets things—sometimes me. Sometimes he thinks he’s fifteen and we’re in the Hamptons for at the house in Malibu and…” She exhales and lifts her chin. “Sometimes he knows who he is, but sometimes it slips away.”
She blinks fast, like she’s trying not to cry. But there’s no drama in it. No theatrics. Just quiet devastation that hasn’t dulled over time.
“He’s in a long-term care facility. One of the best in the state. He needs around-the-clock help—physical therapy, neurological care, constant monitoring. I couldn’t afford it back home, and the waitlists were ridiculous, so I came here. Picked up every shift I could find. Waitressing, tutoring, cleaning. Dog walking. Anything.”
I don’t speak. Just let the silence stretch. Because what the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
“He’s the only real family I have,” she says. “My mom is remarried and out of the country, but Billy’s always been mine. My job, my heart, my responsibility.” She looks up then, eyes clear even if the rest of her is unravelling. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
But I do.
More than she knows.
And that—that—is what makes this entire thing feel like it’s turning inside out. Because the girl I thought I could use as leverage? The one I assumed was some spoiled byproduct of Harold Bennett’s corruption?
She’s out here bleeding for her brother. Holding the weight of the world on her shoulders and refusing to break.
I grip the edge of the table. Hard. Because I’m going to screw with her.
Not relate to her. Not admire her.
And sure as hell not to want her the way I do right now—with heat curling in my gut and something worse coiling deeper. Something I don’t let myself name.
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” I say eventually, clearing my throat.
She shrugs. “You asked.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, eyes still locked on hers. “I did.”
And she answered.
Which means she’s starting to trust me. Which makes me the worst kind of bastard.
Because I’m going to ruin her.
The silence stretches between us again. Thick with things we’re not saying.
She’s taken the edge off, but not the walls. Not completely. She’s still holding something close, and it’s not just the folder.
I know what it is. And for once, I hesitate. A part of me thinks I should leave it alone, but the other part. The one that burns hard and fast, well, it won’t let me.
“What about your father?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. “Is he in the picture?”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move or fidget. Just lets out a short breath and shrugs.
“No.”
That’s it. One word. Flat. Final. He’s off limits and it makes me wonder. Is she protecting him? Or doing her best to forget about him.
I study her face, looking for cracks—some sign of emotion, of buried affection or resentment—but there’s nothing. Just cool detachment, like she’s talking about a stranger. I get it. We build walls around us when we need protection. Hell, I am the king of walls.
