Page 8 of Collide

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, keeping my voice even through gritted teeth. “I have my own money, and I’d rather find a place that suits me.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he snaps, completely bulldozing me, and there it is, the sweet, calm façade cracking. “It’s already done.”

You don’t say no to Mortimer Montgomery.

“No, it’s not. You don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m an adult.” I sit up, leveling the playing field.

“Elena, I don’t want to argue with you.” He sighs, lifting his hands in surrender.

I stop mid-step. That—that—throws me. Since when does he switch gears? Since when does he call me Elena? Since when does henotwant to argue? We usually fight until he’s blue in the face, and I’m seeing red.

Choose your battles,my mother’s voice whispers.

I shake it off.

Not this one.

I’m not backing down.

I open my mouth to pivot, try another approach?—

“I’d feel much better if you lived somewhere safe,” he cuts in. “Close to your sister…closer to me.”

That last part hits weird. Loaded. I don’t know if it’s guilt or control—or both—but it makes my insides twist.

“Why can’t you respect my choices?”

“There are parts of the city that simply aren’t safe for a young woman,” he warns, slipping back into his usual tone. “And since you refuse to access your trust fund, whatever money you’ve squirrelled away might get you a cockroach-ridden hovel in Queens or Harlem. If you end up with strange roommates, I won’t stand for it. I refuse to let a daughter of mine live like that. Please, Elena,humor me.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small gift box, placing it in my hands like it’s supposed to fix everything.

I click my tongue, irritated, and flip open the lid.

Inside, a silver key hangs on a key ring. My initials—EJM—are engraved.

“A homecoming gift,” he proclaims, rubbing his hands together like this was all part of some grand gesture.

I glance down at the key. A studio in Brooklyn is probably the best I can afford on my own, and he knows that. Queens or Harlem? Please. He always imagines the worst. He always has to have the last say.

This isn’t a gift.

It’s a cage.

Our eyes meet—his are warm, full of hope. He looks older, grayer. For a second, guilt flickers. So much time has passed since we were last in the same room.

“Aww, you gave it to her without me?” Philippa whines, pouting as she sets a glass of scotch in front of him.

My skepticism kicks in. Just as quickly as the walls started to lower, I haul them back up.

My eyes flick up to her. He smiles at her—soft, familiar. She returns it, easy and natural.

My heart lurches.

The sight of them, so at ease with each other, slices right through me. It’s seamless between them—this unspoken bond built on years I wasn’t part of. Shared dinners. Inside jokes. A rhythm I never learned.

The ache tightens in my chest—sharp, sudden. Just because I share their blood doesn’t mean I share their world.

I place the box on the table between us. “Excuse me for a moment,” I mutter, standing up and storming off to my room.