Page 141 of Endgame

If you hadn’t hurt Everett, I wouldn’t have been his whore, wouldn’t I?

“Stop lying to me.” Since this isn’t the conversation I’m here for, I silence my accusations. What’s the point anyway? “You know it wasn’t him, so you do know something. You owe me answers.”

“Bold of you to assume I owe you anything.” He takes a step back, gesturing for me to enter my prison. “But we can negotiate…daughter.”

The information I’m interested in is bigger than my ego. Far bigger than the fear that sinks its claws into me.

Bracing myself for the worst, I head inside.

The door shuts behind me, and it’s loud. It’s thundering. I’m lucky to catch my gasp in time.

It’s just a door.

It really is. Not letting him squeeze a word in, I spin on my heel.

“Who is she?” Shoving the picture I stole from Everett is awful. This picture, this girl, they’re dear to my husband, and Winston is looking at her. I hate myself for it. “Is she alive? Is she dead? She’s dead, isn’t she?”

His face turns from white to purple in a matter of seconds. He blinks, pressing his hands to his hips.

I tuck the picture back into my pocket. I’ve violated Everett’s privacy for long enough. “Was she my mom?”

Winston’s eyes are on me. “She was no one.”

Judging the change in him, I see that she was definitely someone. Someone important.

An intricate part of his life. Of Everett’s.

And he saidwas. How did she die? What the hell happened?

Why won’t anyone talk to me?

“Tell me who she was. I’ll leave after that.” Having him lie to my face ignites something hot and unforgiving inside me. “Who was she? You knew her. I can see that you did. So answer me. Was she my biological mother? Who was she to Everett? To you?”

“Last warning, Aurora.”

“I’m not leaving until you answer.”

“Insolent piece of trash,” he snarls and?—

Bam.

His fist connects with my cheek.

Black spots dot my vision. I stumble back, staggering. Eventually, I find myself on my ass.

“Bastard.” I seethe, feeling my cheek swell beneath my fingertips. “Who was she?”

“She was no one,” he repeats, his hand gripping my hair. As he drags me outside, I fight him. I scratch his hand. I kick my feet against the floor. “A nobody, you hear? Just like you.”

He’s right.

He’s so right.

Not about her. About me.

I’m a no one.

The realization is the most brutal blow of everything he’s said to me in a while.