Chapter 23 Kai
KAI
Samantha pushes eggs around her plate without eating them.
I watch from across the breakfast table while Dad discusses something about quarterly reports with Donovan. She’s nodding at the right times, making appropriate sounds, but her eyes are distant. Empty.
“Sam.” I lean forward. “You going to actually eat that or just rearrange it into modern art?”
She looks up, startled. “What?”
“Your eggs. They’ve been traveling in circles for five minutes.”
“Oh.” She sets down her fork. “Sorry. Not that hungry.”
“You feeling okay?” Dad asks, attention shifting to her.
“Fine. Just tired.” She stands, leaving most of her breakfast untouched. “I should get to work on that retail presentation.” She’s gone before any of us can respond.
Dad and Donovan exchange a look. “She’s been off since yesterday,” Donovan says.
“Maybe she’s getting sick,” Dad suggests.
But I don’t think she’s sick. I think something’s wrong and she’s not telling us.
I find her in the library an hour later, staring at her laptop screen without typing.
“Come with me,” I say from the doorway.
She doesn’t look up. “I’m working.”
“You’re staring into space.” I walk over and close her laptop. “Come on. You need air.”
“Kai, I really should—”
“You really should take a break before you burn out.” I pull her to her feet. “Fresh air. Adventure. All the things that make life worth living.”
She lets me guide her toward the door, but doesn’t protest or joke like she normally would.
We bundle up and head outside. The temperature has warmed slightly over the past few days. Still freezing, but the kind of cold that bites rather than stabs.
I lead her to the snowmobiles.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Wherever we end up.” I hand her a helmet. “That’s the fun part.”
We take off across the estate grounds. I go slower than usual, keeping her close. The landscape is stunning—endless white interrupted by dark pine trees, mountains rising in the distance.
I take us to the overlook where we stopped weeks ago. The spot with the view of three mountain ranges. We dismount and stand at the edge, looking out over the valley.
“It’s beautiful,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.” But I’m watching her instead of the view. “You want to talk about what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“I don’t believe that.”
She wraps her arms around herself. “I’m just tired. Work stress.”
“Bullshit. You love your work.” I move closer. “What’s going on, Sam?”
“Do you ever feel like you’re living a lie? Like everything you’re doing is built on something fake?” she finally responds.
It catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”
“I just feel like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. And eventually everyone’s going to figure it out and realize I don’t belong here.”
“That’s ridiculous. You absolutely belong here.”
“Do I?” She finally looks at me, and her eyes are full of something I can’t name. “I’m not like you. I didn’t grow up in this world. I don’t understand half of what you do. I’m just—I’m just me.”
“Just you is exactly why you belong here.” I take her hand. “You think we want some perfect society woman who knows all the rules? We want you. The real you.”
She looks like she might cry. “What if the real me isn’t who you think I am?”
I squeeze her hand. “Whatever’s going on, you can tell us. We’re not going to judge you.”
She pulls her hand away. “I should get back. I’m cold.”
That evening, I’m in my room changing for dinner when the pain hits.
It feels like someone’s driving a knife into my chest and twisting.
I stumble to my bed and sit, pressing my hand against my sternum. My left arm tingles. My vision blurs at the edges.
Not now. Please not now.
I fumble for the hidden cabinet, hands shaking so badly I can barely open the panel. The pill bottle falls to the floor. I grab it and shake out three pills.
Four. I take four because three aren’t working anymore.
I swallow them dry and wait.
The pain doesn’t ease. It intensifies. My heart is racing. Too fast. Irregular. Like it’s forgetting how to beat properly.
I lie back on the bed and focus on breathing. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Slow. Controlled. The pills take forever to kick in. Or maybe it’s only minutes.
Time warps when you think you might be dying.
Finally, gradually, the pain starts to recede. My heartbeat settles into something closer to normal. The tingling in my arm fades. I lie there staring at the ceiling, drenched in sweat.
This is getting worse. Much worse.
I force myself up and into the shower. Wash away the sweat and the fear. Get dressed for dinner.
By the time I head downstairs, I look normal. Tired, maybe, but normal.
No one needs to know.
Dinner is quiet. Dad’s distracted by work. Donovan’s on his phone, dealing with some crisis. And Samantha picks at her food just like she did at breakfast.
I try to engage her. Tell a story about nearly setting fire to the garage when I was sixteen. Make jokes. Do everything I can to get her to smile.
She does smile. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
After dinner, everyone scatters, and I end up alone in the sitting room with a glass of whiskey I shouldn’t be drinking while on heart medication.
Through the window, I can see the snow starting to melt. Not drastically, but noticeably. The huge drifts are shrinking. Icicles are dripping.
Soon, the roads will be clear.
Soon, people will be able to leave.
The thought hits me like another chest pain.
Samantha’s been acting strange since yesterday. What if she’s planning to leave?
What if she’s realizing this life isn’t what she wants, and she’s just waiting for the snow to melt so she can go back to Chicago?
The whiskey turns sour in my mouth. I set down the glass and press my hands against my face.
I can’t let her leave.