Bella glances around, checking if anyone’s watching. Then she walks to the side of the house where the recycling bins sit behind a decorative lattice screen. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause, doesn’t open the package to check the contents. She just hurls it into the bin like she’s throwing out garbage. The four velvet boxes I’d wrapped so carefully probably crushed on impact. The invitations I’d lettered by hand likely bent and creased. She doesn’t look back, just wipes her hands on her pants and walks inside.
The video ends.
The dining room stays silent. Even the fire in the hearth seems to hold its breath. Preston’s face has gone blank. Carefully, deliberately blank. The expression of someone watching their entire future collapse.
“There’s your protection,” I say quietly. “There’s your love.”
The dining room holds its breath. I watch Preston’s face cycle through expressions too fast to name. Confusion. Realization. Disgust. He stands so abruptly his chair scrapes against the hardwood floor, the sound sharp enough to make my mother flinch.
“You threw your sister’s wedding invitations in the trash?” His voice is quiet, which somehow makes it worse. “Because you were afraid of sharing the spotlight?”
Bella reaches for his arm. “Preston. I can explain.”
He jerks away from her touch. “You gave her a book about dying alone when you knew she was married?” He’s staring at Bella like he’s seeing her for the first time. Maybe he is. “I cannot marry a monster.”
The word hangs in the air. Monster.
Bella’s face crumples. “You don’t understand, she’s always—”
But Preston is already moving. He pulls the engagement ring off her finger with such force I’m surprised the band doesn’t bend. The three-carat diamond catches the chandelier light one last time before he places it on the table with a deliberate click that echoes like a gunshot.
“We’re done,” he says.
My mother surges to her feet. “Preston. Don’t be hasty. Bella made a mistake, but surely—”
“A mistake?” Preston’s laugh is harsh. “Mrs. Montgomery, your daughter committed mail tampering. She sabotaged her own sister’s wedding. She lied to my face for eight months.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to marry into a family with integrity. Clearly, I was mistaken about what I’d find here.”
Harrison Sterling rises beside his son, his expression carved from granite. He turns to my father, who hasn’t moved from his seat, whose face has gone the color of old newspaper.
“Richard.” Harrison’s voice carries the weight of forty years in business. “I’ve always believed that a man who cannot manage his household cannot manage a business.”
My father’s bourbon glass pauses halfway to his mouth.
“Your daughter is deceitful.” Harrison gestures toward Bella. “Your wife enables her.” He looks at my mother, whose mouth opens and closes soundlessly. “And you are irresponsible.” His gaze settles back on my father. “The merger project next month? Consider it cancelled. Sterling Group will not do business with the Montgomery family.”
The words land like physical blows. I watch my father’s face drain of what little color remained. That merger was supposed to be his crowning achievement, the deal that would cement his legacy. Fifty million dollars in contracts. A partnership that would have doubled his company’s reach. Gone.
“Harrison, please.” My father finally finds his voice. “We can discuss this privately. Surely—”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Harrison places his hand on Preston’s shoulder. “We’re leaving.”
Bella explodes from her chair. “This is your fault.” She whirls on me, her face twisted with rage. “You ruined everything. I’ll destroy you. I’ll tell everyone what you did, how you manipulated—”
“No.”
The word comes out soft, but it stops her mid-sentence. I stand slowly, smoothing my dress. “You won’t.”“Watch me.” Bella’s voice climbs toward hysteria. “I have two million followers. I’ll—”
“I know Massachusetts law prohibits secret audio recording.” I keep my voice level, conversational. “So the video of tonight’s dinner stays private. I won’t publish it.”
Bella’s expression shifts toward triumph, thinking she’s found an escape route.
“However,” I pause, letting the words settle, “the CCTV footage of you dumping that FedEx package? That’s evidence of federal mail tampering. Title 18, United States Code, Section 1708. Up to five years in federal prison.”
The color drains from Bella’s face.
“If you dare speak one lie about me on social media, that video and a lawsuit go straight to the police and your brand sponsors.” I tilt my head, studying her. “I wonder how Dior and Cartier will feel about their ambassador being investigated for federal crimes.”
Bella collapses back into her chair. The sound that comes out of her isn’t quite a sob, isn’t quite a scream. It’s the sound of someone’s carefully constructed world imploding.
My mother sits frozen, her hands clutched in her lap. My father stares at the table like the woodgrain holds answers.
I reach for the cream-colored gift box, the one containing that horrible app membership and that cruel book that I put on the table. I pick it up with both hands and walk around the table.
Bella flinches when I approach, like I might hit her.
I place the box directly in front of her, right next to Preston’s abandoned engagement ring. “Keep it,” I say. “You need it more than I do now.”
The words taste like freedom.
I turn toward the foyer. Harrison and Preston are already there, collecting their coats. As I pass Harrison, he gives me a single nod. Respect, maybe. Or approval. It doesn’t matter which.
Behind me, I hear my mother’s voice, thin and desperate. “Caroline, wait. We can fix this. We can. Uh.”
But I’m already walking. Through the foyer, past the marble staircase where Bella and I posed for Christmas photos as children, through the massive oak doors that close behind me with a final, definitive thud.
The December air hits my face like cold water. Clean. Sharp. Real.
My Uber is waiting at the bottom of the circular drive, exhaust puffing white in the freezing air. I climb into the back seat, and the driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.
“Logan Airport,” I confirm.
As we pull away, I allow myself one look back at the Montgomery estate. Every window blazes with light, but from here, it looks empty. A beautiful shell with nothing living inside.
I pull out my phone and video call Nate. His face fills the screen, and the knot in my chest finally begins to unwind. His hair is messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes search mine.
“Is it done?” he asks.
“It’s done. Mom’s heating up soup for you.” His smile is soft, warm, everything that house wasn’t. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Not the place I was born, but the place where I’m loved.
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice only shakes a little. “Let’s go home.”
Three days later, I’m unpacking groceries in our Austin kitchen when the FedEx truck pulls up. Through the window, I watch the driver jog to the porch, scan a package, jog back. The box sits there on the welcome mat, square and flat. I know what it is before I open it. I can practically smell my father’s desperation through the cardboard.
Inside, a check. $50,000. The number seems obscene, written in my father’s careful architect’s print. The note is brief, typed on his business letterhead like this is just another transaction.
I’m sorry, please stay silent about the contract.
I stand there in my kitchen, holding $50,000, and I think about the girl who would have cashed this check, the one who showed up on Christmas Eve still hoping, the one who saved their chairs at her wedding. She’s gone.
I tear the check in half, then quarters, then confetti. My phone is already in my hand. I arrange the pieces on the granite counter, photograph them, open the family group chat. Three people. Mom, Dad, Bella.
I type: I don’t sell my silence. I’m gifting it to you for free, as a parting gift. Do not contact me again.
My thumb hovers over the send button for maybe three seconds. Then I press it.
The message shows delivered. Then read. Someone starts typing. Stops. Starts again. I don’t wait to see what they’ll say. I scroll to the top of the chat, tap the settings icon, and find the words I’ve been looking for.
Leave group.
Are you sure?
I’ve never been more sure of anything.Leave.
The kitchen is too quiet after I leave the group chat.
For a moment, I just stand there with my palms flat on the granite, breathing in and out while the refrigerator hums like it’s the only thing still willing to make noise around me. The torn pieces of the check lie scattered across the counter like snow. My phone screen has gone dark again, the little “Leave group” confirmation already fading from view as if it never happened.
I expect to feel guilty.
I don’t.
What I feel is something stranger, heavier, like when a cast finally comes off and your leg is lighter but the muscles underneath don’t quite remember how to move yet. I flex my fingers against the stone, trying to convince my body that we’re allowed to exist without bracing for the next blow.
“Hey.”
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