Page 22 of What You left in Me

Eleanor’s clasps her hands together, the picture of pleased composure. “I told you I’d make tonight unforgettable,” she coos loudly enough for the nearest senator’s wife to hear. Then, toward Dad, “She didn’t know. I wanted it that way.”

Dad smiles, though his eyes look tired. “You always did like theatrics, Eleanor.”

Ariane throws herself into Julian’s arms, squealing again as he catches her, spins her once with a grin the bastard’s probably practiced in mirrors. She presses her face into his chest, laughter muffled but bright, raw. “I thought you weren’t coming until Monday!”

“Couldn’t stay away from you,” Julian says smoothly, his voice pitched low for her but just loud enough for everyone else to catch the line. A good man in politics never wastes an audience.

Guests sip champagne, nod at one another, watch the scene unfold like it’s a fairy tale staged just for them. And Eleanor? She stands straighter, her smile knife-edged, drinking it in like victory. I stand at the edge of the firelight, watching Ariane cling to him like he’s gravity.

I want to walk away. I don’t belong here. Nobody’s going to miss me anyway. The suits, the donors, the staged smiles, they’re here for Eleanor’s circus, not me. I turn toward the house, already mapping exits in my head.

And that’s when it hits. A scream.

This one is raw and guttural. It’s Eleanor.

The sound cleaves the night in half. The quartet bows screech to a halt, a violin string whining as the note dies. Conversations stutter into silence. Someone gasps. Then, the lawn erupts into confusion, guests craning their necks, murmurs swelling like a wave, and chairs scraping against flagstones.

I whip back, instincts ahead of thought.

The crowd has split open around a fallen shape on the grass and my chest caves before my brain catches up.

Dad.

He’s collapsed near the edge of the firelight, sprawled awkwardly on the ground. One hand clutched tight against his chest, the other bent at a wrong angle, useless. His face is gray, lips pale, eyes wide but unfocused. A sound leaves his mouth, half-groan, and then nothing.

Eleanor is already on her knees beside him, pearls flashing wild against her throat, her designer clutch forgotten in the grass. She presses her hands to his shoulders like she can force him back into his body. “Richard! Richard, breathe, damn it, don’t youdare…” Her voice cracks, pleading and desperate, nothing like the controlled woman who choreographs every second of this house.

Ariane is frozen just beyond them, hands covering her mouth, eyes wide and wet in the firelight. Her whole body tilts forward, like she’s about to rush in, but her feet stay rooted to the ground. Her emerald dress pools around her ankles, thepicture of composure one second ago now trembling like glass about to shatter.

Guests circle, useless as moths. A senator’s wife clutches her necklace, murmuring, “Oh God, oh God.” A younger man fumbles with his phone, shouting something about calling an ambulance. Someone spills champagne on the grass and curses under their breath like that’s the tragedy here.

The bonfire keeps crackling, spitting sparks into the air, mercilessly alive while Dad lies still.

And me? I can’t move. My veins are buzzing, a static roar in my ears. I feel the liquor claw up the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. My feet stay locked in the dirt while the world bends sideways around me.

I told myself nobody would miss me. That I could walk away. That I didn’t belong here.

And now my father is on the ground, and his wife is screaming like the earth just gave out beneath her, and Ariane is staring at him like she’s fourteen again and terrified of everything breaking.

And I am frozen.

Chapter 8 – Ariane – Shattered Hopes

The scream doesn’t even sound human.

For a second, I think the bonfire cracked or one of the champagne bottles exploded. But then my mother’s voice shatters across the lawn again, ripping out of her throat like it’s been waiting there all her life.

The world tilts. Glasses topple off tables, guests stumble backward, heels scraping on the patio stones. The quartet crashes into silence mid-note, bows hanging stupidly in the air. It takes me a heartbeat too long to realize the thud I heard wasn’t a bottle. It was Richard.

He’s on the ground, crumpled on the grass. His face is slack in a way I’ve never seen before.

My entire body freezes. It’s like my bones forget how to move. I may as well be a wiry thirteen-year-old again, watching kids whisper about me while I try to disappear into a chair too small for my legs. Except, this time, it’s worse because I can’t disappear. I have to move, I have to…

Finally, my knees slam into the grass beside him, my dress pooling awkwardly, my palms fumbling for his hand. “Rich—” His name catches in my throat. I choke it back to where it belongs, my heart aching for the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had. “Richard? Richard, can you hear me?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, a sheen of sweat breaking along his temple. My mother is clutching his jacket like she can drag him back by sheer force. She’s shaking her head over and over, whispering, “Not tonight, not tonight.”

The air smells like smoke from the bonfire and spilled wine. Someone yells that they’ve called 911. Guests shift, murmuring, pulling back like the sight of a man crumpled in the grass might stain their shoes.