TWENTY-FIVE

The food on the table looked perfect. Steaming, arranged, untouched. Every dish smelled incredible, but no one reached for anything.

We sat in a fragile silence, knives and forks resting like unused weapons beside porcelain plates. The tension didn’t just hang—it pressed down like humidity before a storm.

Brooklyn broke first.

She set her wine glass down with a quiet clink and leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “You know,” she started, “my husband used to sit at this table. Right there.” She gestured casually to a chair that was now empty. “He never felt welcome here either.”

Wesley didn’t even look at her. “Is that what this is now? A nostalgia trip?”

Brooklyn smiled, but there was no humor in it. “No. Just facts.”

Diana said nothing, just took another careful sip of her drink, like she was watching a show she’d already seen before.

Brooklyn’s smile faded. “He needed help, Wesley. He was drowning. And I told you.”

Wesley’s jaw tightened. “And I told you I wasn’t in a position to interfere.”

“You weren’t in a position,” Brooklyn repeated, voice climbing slightly. “You were busy. You had things to handle. But I was your sister. He was your family.”

Wesley finally looked at her. “He made enemies. That wasn’t on me.”

Brooklyn’s laugh was short and bitter. “Oh, so it’s his fault you ignored my calls?”

“I was doing damage control,” Wesley snapped.

“I was attacked last week,” she cut in, suddenly loud. “By the people he owed. I was in my car. They pulled me out of it. I called you again. You didn’t answer.”

Wesley leaned forward, voice flat. “There’s nothing I could’ve done.”

“No?” she shot back. “But you can do everything for Davina, right?”

That name dropped like a hammer on the table.

Brooklyn leaned in slightly, her voice quieter now but sharper. “You go to war for her. You protect her. You move mountains. And she’s fucking your enemy.”

Silence.

I froze. Everyone else did too.

Diana’s eyes didn’t move from her son. Wesley didn’t flinch, but I could feel the heat rolling off him from where I sat.

Brooklyn sat back again, arms crossed. “But when it was me… nothing.”

Wesley didn’t respond. His face was calm, but I could see the storm behind his eyes.

And me? I just sat there, stuck between all of it, trying not to breathe too loud. Because whatever this was—it wasn’t over yet.

The room went quiet.

Not just awkward quiet—weighted quiet. Like the walls themselves were waiting to see what would happen next.

Brooklyn swirled her wine slowly, then glanced at me, eyes suddenly soft and sharp all at once.

“No offense, dear.”

I looked up. Her tone was gentler, but it still landed heavy. I gave her a small smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “None taken,” I said. Then added, without thinking, “I just wish I’d known about Davina earlier. Before I lost the baby.”

The words came out quieter than I expected. But they hit hard. I felt it ripple across the table.

Even Brooklyn blinked. Her smirk dropped for the first time.

“I didn’t know,” she said after a second. “I’m sorry.”

Her voice didn’t carry sarcasm this time. Just regret.

It was the kind of apology that could’ve started something real—something healing—if it hadn’t already been too late.

Wesley shifted in his seat. “This isn’t helping anyone,” he said, voice tight. “What happened to him… to your husband… it was awful. But you can’t keep pointing fingers and ignoring what you—”

"Oh my God." Brooklyn said, throwing her head back.

Wesley had leaned forward earlier, voice cool but cutting, and said, “Don’t talk to me about being absent when you haven’t held up your end of the responsibility. Family loyalty isn’t just a one-way thing, Brooklyn.”

Brooklyn’s chair screeched back as she stood.

“You want to talk about family loyalty?” she snapped, eyes burning now. “Family loyalty?”

Her voice cracked but kept going, louder.

“My husband died. Died. And I needed your help. I called you. Repeatedly. I begged you, Wesley.” Her voice wavered but didn’t fall. “You ignored me. I kept thinking you’d show up. That maybe you were just late. That you’d call back. But you didn’t.”

Wesley stared up at her, frozen. No mask this time. Just pain.

“And now you want to sit there and talk to me about responsibility? About holding up my end of the family?” Her eyes flicked to Diana now. “Fuck you.”

Then louder, to both of them. “Fuck both of you.”

Her hands trembled, but her voice didn’t falter. “And I mean that with all my heart.”

No one moved.

Not Diana.

Not Wesley.

Not me.

Brooklyn stood there like a storm—unapologetic and raw—and for once, not a single person at that table had anything left to say.

Brooklyn turned and started toward the exit, her heels sharp against the marble floor, her back straight, fire still in her stride.

But she stopped. Right beside me.

I didn’t look up at first. I couldn’t. My fingers were clenched around the edge of the table, trying to anchor myself to something. Anything.

Then her voice came, low but clear. Just for me.

“Whatever this is between you and Wesley,” she said, “it might feel like safety now. Like power. Like protection. But it won’t last.”

I looked up slowly. Her eyes met mine—steady, no longer angry, just honest.

“One day, the pressure will snap,” she continued. “And when it does, it won’t just take him down. It’ll take you down with it.”

She didn’t blink. “Trust me. Run now while you still can.”

Then she walked away.

No dramatic exit.

No look back.

No goodbyes.

The door closed behind her with a soft click, and somehow, that sound felt louder than anything else that had been said.

Silence fell over the house again—heavy, final.

Wesley didn’t speak. Diana sat stiff, eyes down, like she’d already moved on from all of it. Or maybe she was pretending it hadn’t just happened.

But me?

I stayed frozen in my seat, heart pounding, stomach twisted up in a knot so tight I could barely breathe.

Because the worst part wasn’t her yelling.

Wasn’t the name-calling.

Wasn’t the emotional bloodbath we’d all just witnessed.

No.

The worst part was how calm she’d been when she said it. How certain she sounded. Like she wasn’t warning me out of spite… but out of experience.

And that quiet conviction?

That was the part that terrified me.

because deep down, some part of me already knew—she might be right.