Chapter 18 - Echoes in the Hallway
The familiar scent of lavender potpourri and expensive lemon polish hit my nose as I walked down the second-floor hallway, but underneath it lingered a sharp, suffocating odor of stale panic. The house was dead silent, save for the muffled, frantic pacing coming from behind Paige’s closed bedroom door at the end of the hall.
My father was standing outside her door, leaning heavily against the wainscoting with his head in his hands. His shoulders were slumped, his expensive designer tie loosened and dangling limply against his chest. When he heard my footsteps, he looked up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine.
"Clara," he muttered, his voice raspy and devoid of its usual booming authority. "She won't open the door. She’s been in there for hours. She threw her phone against the wall an hour ago—we heard it shatter."
I stopped a few feet away from him, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn't offer him comfort. I didn't ask if he was okay. After thirty years of being treated like a ghost in my own family, I had run completely out of empathy for men who only noticed my existence when they needed a shield.
"Good," I said flatly. "Maybe the silence will give her time to reflect on the fact that actions have consequences. Something neither of you ever bothered to teach her."
My father’s face flushed with a sudden surge of defensive anger, the old patriarch trying desperately to claw his way back to the surface. "Watch your tone, Clara! Your sister is in crisis! Julian walked out of the venue yesterday afternoon after hearing that disgusting voicemail she left on your phone, and now he’s refusing to even speak to her lawyers. She’s inconsolable!"
"Inconsolable because she lost her country club wedding, her monogrammed napkins, and a husband she only wanted as a trophy?" I shot back, stepping closer so he could see the absolute coldness in my eyes. "Or is she inconsolable because, for the very first time in her pampered, miserable life, crying didn't instantly get her what she wanted?"
Before my father could formulate a response, the bedroom door clicked.
Slowly, the white wooden door creaked open an inch. A pale, tear-streaked face peered out into the hallway. Paige. Her hair was tangled, her designer wedding dress—which she had apparently refused to take off—was stained with dried mud near the hem where she’d likely been thrashing around her room.
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When her swollen, red-rimmed eyes locked onto mine, a flicker of something dark and desperate crossed her features. For a fraction of a second, I thought I might see remorse.
I was wrong.
