Chapter 5

Cynthia didn't want to answer.

But the call had come from her mother's number—the one she hadn't saved but couldn't forget—and against every instinct screaming in her chest, she had answered.

"You need to come home. Now."

Not please. Not how are you. Just a command, wrapped in the same cold disappointment that had flavored every conversation of Cynthia's life.

So here she was. Standing on the front steps of the Ramsdale estate, the house where she had grown up feeling like a guest in someone else's life. She rang the bell, and the door swung open before she could knock.

Her mother, Julia Ramsdale, stood in the doorway. Her face was pinched, pale, her eyes rimmed red.

"Cynthia." The name came out like an accusation.

"Mother."

"Don't 'Mother' me. Get inside."

Cynthia stepped over the threshold, and the door slammed behind her.

The living room was a battlefield of scattered newspapers and a television murmuring on a low news channel. Her father, Kennedy Ramsdale, stood by the window with his back to her, his shoulders rigid. And on the couch—

Aurelia.

Curled into a ball, her face blotchy and swollen from crying. She clutched a pillow to her chest like a shield. When she saw Cynthia, she let out a small, wounded sound and buried her face against the cushion.

Julia didn't wait. She rounded on Cynthia, her voice rising with every word.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Cynthia blinked. "What I've done?"

"Don't play innocent with me!" Her mother's hand slammed against the back of a chair. "The divorce. The video you submitted to the police. The way you've been parading around playing the victim—"

"I am the victim," Cynthia cut in. "I'm the one he tried to force into taking the blame. I'm the one he slapped in front of our children. I'm the one walking away from a marriage that has been slowly killing me for five years. So please, Mother, tell me again how any of this is my fault."

Julia's mouth opened, then closed. But her father turned from the window, and his voice was worse than Julia's—cold, measured, final.

"Your sister is being torn apart by the press. They're calling her a homewrecker. A criminal. She almost didn't get out of bed this morning, and you stand there talking about your pain?"

Cynthia's gaze flicked to Aurelia. Her sister's shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Almost didn't get out of bed. Cynthia had heard those words before. Had seen this performance before. Every time Aurelia faced consequences, the tears came. Every time the world didn't hand her what she wanted, the almost tragedy followed.

"You want to know what I've done?" Cynthia said quietly. "I've finally stopped setting myself on fire to keep her warm."

Her father's eyes went hard. "You will go to the press. You will tell them that the accident was your fault. That you were the one driving, not Aurelia. And you will explain that the divorce is mutual—that there is no 'other woman.'"

Cynthia laughed. It came out broken and sharp.

"You want me to lie? To destroy my own reputation so Aurelia can keep hers?"

"Your reputation is already ruined," her mother snapped. "Everyone knows how you trapped Kane into marrying you. Everyone knows you've been a thorn in this family's side since the day you were born. The least you could do is—"

"The least I could do?" Cynthia's voice rose. "The least I could do? I gave up my career for her. I gave up my dreams. I watched you two pour every resource into her while I begged for scraps. Who paid for her first dance lessons? You did. Who paid for mine? I worked three jobs. Who got the solo recitals? She did. Who got told to 'step aside' because 'Aurelia needs this more'? Me. Every single time."

"That's enough," her father growled.

"It's not enough! It will never be enough, because no matter how much I give, you always want more!" Cynthia's hands were shaking now. "She's not fragile, Father. She's lazy. She's never had to fight for anything because you've always cleared the path for her. And now the path is blocked, and instead of teaching her to climb, you want me to lie down so she can walk over my body."

Her mother stepped forward, her hand raised—

Cynthia caught her wrist.

She didn't squeeze. She didn't strike. She just held it there, suspended in the air between them, and looked her mother directly in the eye.

"You will not hit me," Cynthia said, her voice low and steady. "Not today. Not ever again."

Julia's face twisted. But Cynthia let go and stepped back.

Aurelia lifted her head from the couch, her eyes wet and pleading. "Cynthia, please—I didn't ask for any of this. I never wanted to come between you and Kane—"

"You've been trying to come between us since the night I married him. Don't pretend otherwise. It insults both our intelligences."

Aurelia's mask cracked. For just a second, something ugly flickered across her face. Then she dissolved into tears again.

Cynthia turned toward the door.

She didn't make it.

The front door opened, and Kane walked in like he owned the place—because of course he did. Of course her parents had called him too. Of course this had all been orchestrated.

He took one look at Aurelia crying on the couch, at Julia trembling with fury, at Kennedy standing like a sentinel of judgment—and his gaze landed on Cynthia.

"We need to talk."

"No," Cynthia said. "We don't."

He stepped into her path, blocking the door. "The press is destroying her. You know that's not fair. She made a mistake, but she doesn't deserve—"

"She doesn't deserve what, Kane? Consequences? Because in my experience, people who speed and hit other people usually face them. But not Aurelia. Never Aurelia."

His jaw tightened. "You're being unreasonable."

"I'm being honest. There's a difference. You're just not used to hearing it from me."

He reached for her arm. She pulled back.

"Cynthia—"

"Don't touch me."

His eyes darkened. "You're going to fix this. You're going to talk to the press, and you're going to tell them—"

"I'm going to tell them the truth."

Kane's hand shot out again, this time gripping her elbow hard enough to bruise. "You will do as you're told."

Something in Cynthia snapped.

She wrenched her arm free—and before she could think, before she could stop herself, her palm connected with his cheek.

The slap cracked through the room like thunder.

Everyone froze.

Kane's head had turned with the force of it. He stood there, breathing hard, one hand rising slowly to his reddening cheek.

And Cynthia—Cynthia didn't wait to see what came next.

She turned, yanked the door open, and ran.

She didn't look back. Not at her mother's gasp. Not at her father's stunned silence. Not at Aurelia's tear-streaked face. And not at Kane, who had finally found his voice.

"Cynthia!"

She hit the sidewalk at a sprint.

"If you walk out that door—if you leave—I swear to the Moon, I will make you regret it! I will take everything! The boys. The money. Every last thing you think you have—"

She didn't stop. She didn't slow.

She flung herself into the back of a passing taxi and slammed the door behind her.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. "Where to, miss?"

"Just drive," Cynthia gasped. "Anywhere. Just—drive."

The taxi pulled away from the curb. Through the back window, Cynthia saw Kane standing on the sidewalk, his fists clenched, his face a mask of fury.

She watched him shrink in the distance until he disappeared entirely.

Then she pulled out her phone.

Her hands were still shaking. Her cheek stung where no one had hit her, but somehow felt bruised anyway. Her heart was a war drum in her chest.

She found Maude's number and typed:

Change of plans. I need you to come get me. Tonight.