Page 4 of What You left in Me

And this trip? That’s too much family. Three days of it. But that’s the deal I cut.

Three days,I remind myself,and I’m out.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Eric. Of course.

Eric:Don’t forget the Toronto deal review. And your return flight’s locked for Monday.

I don’t bother answering. He doesn’t need a reply because he knows I’ll show, and I’ll get that shit done. I don’t fuck around when it comes to the business. Everything else is disposable.

The car waits at the curb, black and glossy. The chauffer opens the door without a word. I slide in, lean back, rubbing at my temple. The hangover’s faint but nagging. Last night’s whiskey was exceptional, but the company certainly wasn’t. That’s how it always goes, unfortunately. Still, it’s better to dull the edges than face the silence.

The road winds out of town, ash trees lining the familiar bends like silent witnesses.

Willowridge hasn’t changed at all. It’s still the same cracked pavement, same small-town whispers waiting to happen. My jaw flexes as the woods comes into view, a fading bruise against the horizon.

Fuck, I should’ve stayed gone.

The estate rises out of the trees like a memory kept under glass. Grand, immaculate, but cold as ever. The kind of house that tries too hard to saywelcomewith its glowing and warm lights, but you know it only lets a selected few enter its realm.

The car crunches to a stop on gravel. I step out, Italian leather shoes hard against the stones. Gravel gives way under me, a sound too crisp and familiar. I look up and see Eleanor. She’s already at the top of the stairs, arms folded, pearls catching the glow of the sun and a tight smile across her lips.

“You’re early,” she says, voice clipped like she’s annoyed I didn’t give her more time to brace herself.

I lift a brow. “Didn’t want to fight for parking.”

Her lips purse into a thin line. The same look she gave me when I was sixteen and brought a fight home. Some things never fucking change.

Then Dad appears, warm as always. He crosses the steps quickly, hand clapping down on my shoulder like he’s genuinely glad I’m here. “Finn. You look great, son.”

The name still grates. It’s Finn to him. Finn to everyone else who doesn’t matter, too. But I don’t correct him. My mother was the only one who called me Finnick. After she died, the name died with her. I let the ghost of a smile pull at my mouth. It’s not real, but I can try to be civil. It’s what my mother would want. Already, I’m counting hours. Seventy-two of them, and then I’m free again.

I ascend the stairs, and then Eleanor insists on showing me to my room, her heels clicking down glinting marble. As if I don’t fucking know the layout of the house I grew up in. Better than she does, I fucking bet.

The suite is tucked near the back of the house, white walls, muted blues, untouched.

Entering it brings back memories I’m not sure I want to replay.

“It’s a nice space you have here,” she says, looking around. “It’s quieter here.”

“Yep,” I answer. My eyes sweep the room once, neat bed, still air, and windows framing the lake. It smells different though, like detergent and staged hospitality.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Eleanor finally says when it becomes clear I’m not going to make small-talk back. The door blissfully shuts the door behind her.

I drag a hand through my hair and listen to the fading sound of her heels. I don’t bother unpacking. There’s no point in it. The suitcase stays on the edge of the bed, zipper closed.

When I step out onto the balcony, it’s cooler than the rooms inside, carrying the faint smell of water and pine. I brace one palm against the railing, the wood smooth under my skin. Below me, the lake stretches out under the fading sun, wide and still, the surface shifting silver into black as the light dies. It looks like a painting someone forgot to take off the wall, too perfect and serene. It’s the type of view people fly across the country for, buy calendars of, write postcards about.

I, on the other hand, fucking hate it.

Peace has always felt like a trick in this place, like picturesque novelty covering a lie.

I stare long enough for my head to start buzzing with the wrong kind of thoughts, the ones that only a handle of scotch can drown.

That’s when I notice the movement.

My eyes involuntarily seek the source of sound, slow and lazy, though I’m fully expecting nothing worth seeing. It’sprobably just a servant clearing lanterns or one of the neighbors’ kids sneaking a smoke where no one will find them.

Actually, who am I fucking kidding? Nobody’s brave enough to come here for a smoke.