Chapter 38
Liv
After the chest shaking sobs have stopped, and the tears finished falling, for now at least, I toss my bag in the corner. I’ve lost the energy to keep packing… or vapidly threatening to leave the manor.
It takes a moment, and a painful amount of effort but I finally pull myself to standing… just as the door opens again.
My heart jumps straight into my throat. “Alex, I told you to-”
“I’m not Alex.”
I straighten slowly, turning to see Alex’s father standing in the doorway, looking composed and calm, like the emotional bomb that just went off in this room didn’t shake the foundation of his house at all.
For a second, neither of us says anything. Then, “I can come back later,” he offers politely. Like this is a scheduling conflict.
I let out a shaky breath, dragging a hand over my face. “No,” I say. “It’s… fine.” I mean, it’s not, but whatever.
He steps inside anyway, closing the door gently behind him.
I go back to my bag, shoving another handful of clothes inside like that’s something I still have control over.
“I imagine you have questions,” he remarks.
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the chair near the window.
I nod. He sits with a perfect posture and perfect composure.
I hate it a little, because I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, and he looks like he’s never even been close to feeling like this.
“You’re angry,” he points out.
I stop moving. “Yeah,” I reply flatly.
“That’s understandable.”
I let out another breath, sharper this time. “Is it?” I ask. “Because your son didn’t seem to think so.”
“That’s not entirely accurate,” he rebuts calmly. “He understands your anger. He simply believes the outcome justifies the method.”
My hands curl into fists. “Yeah,” I mutter. “I got that part.”
“And you don’t agree,” he verifies.
“No,” I snap. “I don’t agree with someone taking my DNA without my consent like I’m some kind of… sample.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “And you shouldn’t.”
That… throws me.
I look at him. “What?”
“You shouldn’t agree with it,” he repeats. “It was a violation.”
The words land heavier than I expect because I didn’t think I’d hear that here. Not from him considering how his son sees it.
I swallow. “Then why are you in here?” I ask. “To defend him?”
“No,” he says simply. “To give you context.”
I huff a breath, turning back to my bag. “I don’t need context to know that what he did was wrong.”
“No,” he agrees. “But context might help you understand why he made that choice.”
I pause because I don’t want to understand. Understanding makes things complicated and softens edges that feel sharp for a reason.
“I’m not trying to excuse his behavior,” he continues. “I’m trying to explain it.”
I glance at him again. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“I’m aware.”
A heavy silence settles before he calmly states, “he wasn’t always like this.” Something in his tone shifts subtly, like he’s slipping into a memory.
I don’t respond but I don’t interrupt either.
“He was eight when I met him,” Arthur continues. “Small for his age and quiet but observant in a way that didn’t feel natural for a child.”
I lean back against the edge of the dresser, my arms crossing over my chest. “Why?” I ask despite myself.
“Because he’d already learned what happens when you don’t pay attention.”
My ribs feel like they’re closing in slightly. I don’t understand it, but I don’t like the way it sounds. “What do you mean?”
His gaze drifts, just for a second, not distantly. More like his focus is turning inward. “His biological father was… unstable,” he states carefully. “Violent and controlling, the kind of man who believed his family existed for his use, not their own autonomy.”
My stomach twists at the use of that word again.
“He killed Alex’s mother,” he continues.
The room goes still.
“What?” I breathe.
“It wasn’t immediate,” he clarifies. “It escalated. Slowly. Like these things often do.”
I can’t move, can’t speak.
“Alex was there,” he says. “He saw more than a child should ever see.”
My throat tightens.
“And when his father turned on him…” he adds quietly, “he learned very quickly that survival depended on anticipating danger before it happened.”
Something cracks in the heart. Because suddenly, the pieces are starting to fall into place. The way Alex watches everything, the way he plans three steps ahead, the way he… controls.
“He tried to kill Alex?” I ask.
“Yes.” The word is simple and final.
I exhale slowly, my pulse loud in my ears. “And you…” I start.
“I took him in,” he continues. “After the state removed him from the home.”
I nod slowly, trying to process, trying to reconcile the man I know with the child he was.
“There’s a photograph,” Arthur trails off after a moment, standing and moving toward the hallway and taking one of the pictures off the wall and coming back in. I can’t believe I hadn’t taken the time to look at the pictures lining the hallway while I’ve been here.
He holds it out to me. I hesitate but take it.
It’s him, Alex, but younger. So much younger.
Maybe eight or nine. He’s standing stiffly, like he’s not sure what to do with his own body.
His eyes are too serious for his face, too aware and too sharp.
Even in a still image, he looks like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.
A weight settles in my chest.
“He didn’t trust easily,” he testifies. “Still doesn’t.”
I swallow, my thumb brushing lightly over the edge of the frame.
“But when he does…” he adds, “he holds on to it very tightly.”
I close my eyes for a second, because I know that feeling.
“He made a terrible choice,” Arthur continues. “But it wasn’t made lightly. It was made out of fear.”
I open my eyes again, looking down at the boy in the photo then at the man in my memory. The one who just stood in this room and told me he violated my trust because he thought it was necessary.
“He doesn’t get to do that,” I avow quietly.
“No,” he agrees. “He doesn’t.”
Relief flickers briefly in my heart. Because at least someone here isn’t pretending that what he did was okay.
“But understanding where it comes from,” he adds, “might help you decide what to do next.”
I put the photo down carefully on the dresser. My hands are steadier now. Not calm but… less chaotic. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.
It feels like a failure to say it out loud, like I should be more certain and more decisive. But I’m not because nothing about this is simple.
“He broke my trust,” I say. “And I don’t know how to come back from that.”
“You might not,” he affirms. No sugarcoating or false reassurance. Just truth. “And that would be a reasonable decision,” he adds.
I nod slowly because it would be. It would be easier, too.
But I think about the garden, about the way he watches me like I matter, about the way he-
“I also don’t think he’s a bad person,” I admit. The words feel strange and conflicting after everything that’s happened.
Because both things are true: he hurt me and he cares about me. And I don’t know how to hold both of those things at the same time.
“That’s the difficult part,” Arthur says quietly.
I huff a small breath. “Yeah. I need time.”
“Then take it.”
I nod because that’s the only thing I’m sure of right now. Time. I need space to figure out where the line is and whether it’s already been crossed too far.
Arthur stands, moving toward the door, pausing just before he leaves. “He will respect your decision,” he assures.
I don’t know if that’s true, but I nod anyway.
“Thank you,” I muse.
He inclines his head slightly then steps out, leaving me alone again.
But this time, it doesn’t feel quite as suffocating. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my half-packed bag. At the life I was about to walk back into. At the one I’m not sure I can stay in. And for the first time since everything exploded, the anger isn’t the only thing I feel.