Page 114 of What You left in Me

“Don’t you ever fucking touch her again,” he says through grit teeth.

He doesn’t raise his voice. There’s no need for it. It goes up my spine and settles there.

Mom jerks, free hand flying to her throat as if to protect the jewelry. “How dare you…”

“How dare you,” he says back, and the mirror of it makes her blink. His eyes have gone bright and cold. I’ve seen that look in boardrooms, read about it on the faces of men who lost to him. I’ve never seen it aimed at my mother. It’s terrifying. It’s… relieving.Oh God.

“Finn.” Richard struggles up out of his chair, wincing, which reminds me of the gravity of the situation. “Son, let’s all, please...”

“I’m done.” Finn doesn’t look at Richard. He’s looking at Mom like she’s the problem he was born to solve. “I’m all out oflater.”

Mom’s mouth twists. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing behind our backs?” She flicks a glance at me, full of disgust and fear. “You—both of you—are filth. I will not let you destroy what’s left of this family.”

I find my voice. “You hit me in front of everyone,” I say, and it comes out small and incredulous and furious all at once. “You just…” My cheek throbs. “What family are you protecting, Mom?”

“The one I built with nothing but grit,” she spits. Color has come roaring back to her face, two bright flags on her cheekbones. “The one I held together while you ran around playing teacher and victim and he,” she jerks her chin at Finn, “played God.”

Finn’s fingers flex on her wrist. Very small. “Careful.”

“Or what?” she hisses. “You’ll run to your father and cry? You’ll buy another company to feel tall? You’ll seduce my daughter,your sister, under the same roof…”

“Enough,” Richard says, but the word drops like a pebble into a canyon. No one hears it hit.

My face is still burning. My whole body is radiating with humiliation. I want my mother to stop looking at me like I’m something she stepped in. I want to go back to before any of this. I want to go forward to after.

Finn leans in. The grip on Mom’s wrist tightens maybe a millimeter. His voice drops to something lethal and almost gentle.

“You want to talk about shame?” he says. “Let’s talk about what you did to my mother.”

The words hang there like a chandelier made of knives. The room goes quiet.

Mom freezes. There’s surprise written as over her face, which is new. All the blood leaves it and what’s left looks brittle, like a mask you could crack with a fingernail. Lydia is pressed against the doorframe, eyes huge, hand over her mouth. Richard’s knuckles have gone white on the back of his chair.

My heart stumbles. This is the cliff I’ve felt under my feet all day without being able to name it. The thing coming. The thing you can’t stop once it starts.

“What are you saying?” Richard asks, and the break in his voice is a blade to my ribs.

Mom finds a smile. It’s the wrong smile, the one she uses when she’s scolding the florist. “He’s being dramatic,” she says. “As usual.”

Finn doesn’t smile. “No,” he says, almost kindly. “I’m being honest.”

I look at him, at the hard line of his mouth, the furious brightness in his eyes, and something inside me goes still. I’ve been wobbling on the edge for hours, for days, maybe for weeks, and now I stop. It’s not calm. It’s clarity. This is happening. The world tilts, not back into place, but into whatever comes next.

I touch my cheek again. It’s still hot. It’ll bruise. I let my hand fall. My voice, when it comes, surprises me by working. “Finn,” I say, because I want to anchor myself to the one person whose worst quality is also the reason I’m still standing: he finishes things.

He glances at me. It’s the briefest look, but there’s a whole conversation in it.I told you I would handle it.

I swallow. The room sways a little and I grip the edge of the table, which steadies me somewhat.

“What is he talking about, Eleanor?” Richard asks again, louder now. Panic threads his voice. Fear does, too. Mine mirrors it. I have no idea what he’s about to tell us but Finn isn’t someone who makes declarations out of thin air.

Eleanor’s mask cracks another fraction. “Richard,” she says, and her voice is spun glass, “you’ve just had surgery—”

“Don’t,” Finn says softly, and the single syllable shuts her up like he found the off switch.

I can feel the staff hovering beyond the doorway. I can feel the house itself leaning in.

Finn lets go of Mom’s wrist but doesn’t step back. He stands there, a wall I could stand behind or crash against, and chooses his next sentence with the care of a man setting a fuse.