Page 104 of What You left in Me

We stayed out there until my teeth chattered and my fingers wrinkled, and still she was the one who suggested “one more wave.”

Back on the towel, we ate sandwiches and fruit.

“Are we going home?” I asked, once we were done eating.

“In a bit,” she said without looking away. “You can play more if you want.”

“Aren’t you tired?” I studied her face, the faint shadows under her eyes, the smile that kept coming back, gentle and stubborn.

“Not of this,” she said, and finally glances down at me. “Never of this. I can never forget Rhode Island.”

I was too young to answer with anything wise. I just nodded and squeezed her hand, already thinking about the sandcastle we would build the next day.

I can’t either, I think.

Mom’s face blurs and I’m reminded of Eleanor again. She smiled while my mother was still breathing and set her sights on Dad like he was a prize she was owed. And then she sat in a pew at my mother’s funeral, wearing black, pearls gleaming, eyes on me like she already owned my life too.

I slam my fist against the steering wheel. The horn blares, a short and ugly sound swallowed by the night.

Ariane’s face flashes in my mind, sweet, soft, fucking beautiful Ariane, sleeping in the same house as the woman who poisoned everything. Loving her. Defending her. Still calling her “Mom.”What’s she going to do when I tear the mask off? When I show her Eleanor’s bloodstained hands?

I almost laugh. It comes out a raw, broken sound. Because I already know, Ariane will hate me.For what I did to Julian. For what I’m about to do to Eleanor. For not letting her keep the illusion.

But hate is closer to love than indifference. And I’ll take it. I’ll take her fury if it means she’s looking at me. If it means she finally sees the truth.

Back at the house, I kill the engine and sit in the driveway, staring up at the windows. Most of them are dark. Except Ariane’s. My pulse spikes just knowing she’s awake. Probablylying in bed, biting her lip, thinking about what I did to her, what I put on her skin, the fucking anklet I locked around her like a promise. She probably hates herself for liking it.

But she did.

I felt it.

Chapter 32 – Ariane – The Breaking Point

I hear a buzzing first. It slithers into my dream and rattles around until I realize it isn’t a dream at all. It’s my phone. My eyes feel glued shut; my vision’s a smear of shadows and digital glow. I grope for the screen on the nightstand, knock over a glass of water, and finally manage to drag the phone toward me.

Julian.

If I weren’t half-asleep, I’d probably let it go to voicemail, pretend I never saw it. But muscle memory wins, and before my brain catches up, my thumb’s already swiped.

“Hello,” I rasp, voice rough, somewhere between sandpaper and confusion.

“Ariane,” he says, smooth as polished glass. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“You did,” I croak, shifting upright, sheets tangled around my legs like a bad decision. My heart’s doing that slow thud-thud of panic that hasn’t yet figured out if it’s warranted. “What do you want, Julian?”

“I want to fix what someone broke.” He exhales softly, like this pains him, like he’s practicing sincerity in a mirror. “Those messages you saw… they weren’t mine. Someone faked those screenshots. IT has been combing my backups, which will prove to you they never existed. We traced it to a third-party relay. I sent it to you. It’s all there.”

My stomach pulls tight. “You’re saying you didn’t cheat.”

“I’m saying I would never be that stupid,” he says, and then, catching himself, adds, “I would never do that to you.”

Two beats of silence, then my phone buzzes in my ear like a hornet. Texts pour in—screenshots, logs, metadata,timestamps and IPs with little red circles around them. Another PDF is dropped. I ignored the first one. This one’s labeled PROOF_final_FINAL2.pdf because men like Julian love redownloading files.

He’s still talking. “I’m sending you our report. Look at the log parity— there’s no matching data on my carrier records. You know me, Ariane. I’m careful. Someone set this up.”

Careful. He says it like a compliment to himself.

I say nothing because my mouth is busy being sand.