TWENTY-SIX

Dinner ended like it had never really started.

No one talked. No one touched their food. No one even looked at each other for longer than a second. The air around the table was thick, like it was holding onto everything Brooklyn had just left behind.

The moment the plates were cleared, people stood. Wesley left without a word. Diana followed, slower, calm in that unnerving way of hers. Even the maids moved quietly, like they didn’t want to disturb whatever invisible storm still lingered in the house.

I stayed behind for a moment, fingers brushing over the edge of a plate as I started gathering things, stacking them just to feel like I was doing something. My hands needed something to do. So did my brain.

That was when Diana reappeared at the doorway.

She didn’t step in. She didn’t smile. She just stood there, looking at me like she always did—like I was some strange stain on an otherwise spotless room.

“Don’t bother,” she said coolly. “The maids will handle it.”

I nodded without meeting her eyes. “Okay.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just turned and left, heels clicking softly on the marble as she disappeared again.

I exhaled, let the plate I was holding rest back on the table, and walked out the side door toward the hall.

The silence of the house followed me like a shadow all the way to my room.

As soon as I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it and let the weight drop.

My legs felt heavy. My arms even heavier.

I walked over to the bed, sat down on the edge, and then let myself fall back slowly until I was staring at the ceiling. The soft light from the bedside lamp made the edges of the room glow a little too warmly, like it didn’t belong in the same space as the thoughts running through my head.

Marco.

Davina.

The baby I lost.

The bunker.

Brooklyn.

Everything blurred and then tangled together in my chest.

Brooklyn’s voice had been too clear. Too certain. Too close to the truth.

This wasn’t safe. Not really.

I’d convinced myself it was, because being with Wesley meant Marco couldn’t touch me. But then again—how safe was a place where I’d had to hide in a literal underground bunker days ago? Where red files went missing and people warned you to run with a straight face?

I thought about Aunt Gina for a moment. Her voice. Her warmth. That tiny kitchen that always smelled like cinnamon and home. Maybe I could—

No. I sat up quickly.

Marco knew that house. Knew that neighborhood. The last thing I was going to do was drag danger to her front door.

My hands fidgeted in my lap. I stared at the phone on the bedside table. I thought about calling anyway. Just to hear her voice. Just to feel okay for five minutes.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Instead, I stayed still and tried not to fall apart.

Restlessness settled under my skin like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

I got up from the bed, pacing once, twice, then walked over to the drawer. My fingers hovered for a second before I finally pulled it open. The envelope was still there, right where I’d left it. Undisturbed, untouched. Almost like it was waiting for me.

I picked it up and sat at the edge of the bed, holding it carefully like it might burn.

No name on the outside. Just mine. Just Catrina, written in that same small, careful handwriting. Too neat. Too quiet.

I ran my thumb along the edge of the seal, pressing gently. Still closed. Still a mystery.

A dozen thoughts ran through my head, each one more paranoid than the last. Maybe it was from Marco. Maybe it was from Brooklyn. Maybe it was something worse.

I took a breath, flipped it over, and was just about to open it when—

Knock knock.

Soft but sudden.

I jumped, heart skipping, and shoved the envelope back into the drawer without thinking. I slammed it shut a little too hard.

The door opened a second later.

Wesley stepped in.

He looked around, brows lifting just slightly like he’d heard the drawer, like he’d seen something he wasn’t sure he should mention. But he didn’t ask.

“You good?” he said instead.

I forced a nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He lingered in the doorway for a second, then stepped in another inch.

“I’ll have one of the maids bring you a dress.”

I blinked. “For what?”

He scratched the back of his neck, his jaw flexing slightly. “I can’t stay in this house with my mother much longer,” he muttered. “We’re going out.”

My brows pulled together. “Out… where?”

His mouth quirked just slightly. “A club.”

He said it so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like this day hadn’t been a full-on disaster and we weren’t still recovering from a screaming match at the table.

Before I could say anything else, he turned and headed back toward the hallway. “Get ready.”

And then he was gone.

I stared at the door long after he disappeared behind it.

A club? Seriously?

Wesley didn’t joke. Not about things like that. Not with that tone. He hadn’t even waited for a response, just dropped it and walked out like it was already decided. Like of course I was coming.

My feet didn’t move. My thoughts did.

Why a club?

Why now?

Why me?

There was no logic to it, not after everything that had just happened. Not after Brooklyn's meltdown, Diana’s silent judgment, and the thick tension still clinging to the walls of this house. What did he expect this to fix? What was I even supposed to do there?

I turned slowly, my eyes landing on the drawer.

The letter was still inside. Unopened. Waiting.

I moved toward it, my steps slow, like I was wading through something thick and invisible. I didn’t open the drawer again, just hovered near it, feeling the weight of it all even without touching it.

Brooklyn’s voice echoed in my head, too clear, too recent.

It might feel like safety now. But it won’t last.

I could still see her eyes when she said it. The way they looked at me like she knew. Like she’d already lived the outcome I was walking straight toward.

I backed away from the drawer, pulse steady but fast, then turned toward the mirror.

There I was—hair slightly mussed, makeup faded from the day, expression unreadable.

But I knew what was underneath it.

Uncertainty.

Something was shifting again, and I could feel it in my bones. A quiet, creeping tension just beneath the surface.

Something was coming.

And the scariest part wasn’t that I didn’t know what it was.

It was that deep down…

I wasn’t sure if it was going to be better or worse than what I’d already survived.