Chapter 33
Elara
Dinner at the Ashworth estate didn’t go as I expected.
I was prepared for manipulation, gaslighting, and pleas—but they never came.
The table was set with the good china. Mrs. Ashworth fluttered about, filling my glass before it was half empty.
Mr. Ashworth, propped up with cushions at the head of the table, managed a few frail but coherent questions about quarterly projections.
His gaze lingered on me with a watery mix of gratitude and guilt.
Isn’t it funny how people will use you when they’re at their best without any hesitation, without any thanks… but the second their world collapses, suddenly you’re their missing limb?
Even Brielle was on her best behavior, speaking only when spoken to, her eyes downcast. The air was thick with a collective, unspoken terror: She’s leaving. We have to make her stay.
“Elara… you’ve always been such a blessing to this family,” Mr. Ashworth said out of nowhere.
He said blessing. I heard tool. Crutch.
“Thank you,” I said simply, leaving it at that.
As the dessert plates were cleared, Mrs. Ashworth laid her hand over mine. Her skin was cool. “We’ve missed you at the house. It hasn’t felt the same without you, and you’ve been working so hard. Your old room is always made up. Why don’t you just stay? It would be so much easier.”
There it was. The first gentle tug on the chain.
“Elara…” Alistair cut in, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “We’re not asking for anything. We just… want you to know we’re still family.”
I looked around the table. They were trying to close their gates around me one last time. I slowly withdrew my hand, placing my napkin neatly beside my plate. I forced a small smile.
“I appreciate the invitation, and thank you for dinner,” I said, my voice clear. “It was… lovely. But I’m not staying.”
I stood, the legs of my chair scraping softly against the polished floor. “I’m going home.”
The version of me that stayed for them died months ago. I walked out of the dining room, through the grand foyer, and out the front door without looking back. Outside, the air was cold and clean, nothing like the stale nostalgia clinging to the walls inside.
A message from Julian pinged through: JULIAN: Why are you at that house? Tell me you’re okay.
I exhaled. Yes, I was okay. For the first time in years, I was okay—and not because someone needed me, but because I was finally starting to choose where I belonged. And it wasn’t with the Ashworths.
I texted him back. “I’m fine. I’m coming home.”