20. Jasmine
JASMINE
I’ve never felt anything like this before—not even in the worst moments of my life.
Not when my father left with nothing but a suitcase and a head full of lies, not when Willow vanished without a trace and left me in a silence too sharp to scream through, not even when I stood in the aftermath of what I did at thirteen, with blood drying on my hands and the weight of a secret I thought would crush me before morning.
But this… this is worse.
This is grief that doesn’t howl. It suffocates. I have been paralyzed in my bed for a fucking week.
It spreads through my body like poison, slow and burning, thickening in my chest until I can’t pull air into my lungs without feeling like I might choke on it.
It is a scream stuck behind my teeth, aching to be released but so tangled with guilt and disbelief that I don’t know if it’ll ever come out.
And maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe I don’t deserve to scream when Tommy can’t even breathe anymore.
I’ve been sitting in the center of my bed like a broken doll someone tossed there— knees pulled tight to my chest, arms wrapped around my legs, chin pressed into the cotton fabric of Landon’s t-shirt that still smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and the smoke of his cigarettes.
I’m rocking slowly, without realizing it at first, like movement will stop the panic from setting in, as if swaying can somehow replace the things I’ve lost or rewind time back to when all of this hadn’t yet fallen apart.
I want to peel my skin off. I want to crawl out of my body, claw my way free of this unbearable grief that has made a home in my ribcage, wrapping itself around every bone and nerve ending.
I feel like if I screamed loud enough I could shake the foundation of this entire fucking apartment, like I could rip the sky open and demand Tommy back from whatever cruel force took him.
But I don’t scream. I just sit there, vibrating with grief, caught somewhere between hyper aware and completely numb.
I don’t see him, but I feel the bed dip next to me and the familiar smell of the ocean.
Landon sighs heavily the same sound he made two hours ago when he made me put on his shirt and asked if I wanted a waffle.
I opted for some coffee that has turned ice cold on my nightstand, and when he tried to talk to me after that, all I gave him was silence.
I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say.
Tommy’s dead, and I did everything to keep him alive, but none of that mattered.
I followed Marcus’s orders like a pawn. I got close to Brooke—not just close, but intimate .
I let myself slip into her space, into her bed, into her trust, with every intention of breaking her heart the minute she became easy prey.
I was ready to be the villain in her story if it meant keeping Tommy alive, ready to bear the weight of her heartbreak, of her hatred, if it meant he would be safe.
“Peach,” he whispers, his voice rough at the edges, fingertips ghosting over my exposed knee like he’s afraid I might flinch.
“You have to eat something.”
I shake my head, too fast, too sharp, and bury my face deeper between my knees. The ache in my body has settled into something bone-deep. A numb, shaking kind of stillness. I feel like if I move too much, I’ll split open.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs again, shifting across the bed. The mattress groans beneath him as his weight pulls toward me, and I can feel it—his warmth, his breath, the tension in him coiled tight like a spring. I shift away, instinctively curling tighter into myself.
“Say something.”
“I killed him,” I gasp, the words punching out of me like I’ve been holding them down for too long. They sear on the way up, fire behind my teeth. “I killed him, Landon.”
“No,” he says, soft but certain, shaking his head. “You didn’t kill him.”
But it doesn’t matter what he says. Not when the truth is already screaming inside me.
I didn’t pull the trigger, but something I did—something I chose —led to this.
Something I did led to this blood on my fucking hands, and I don’t know what it is.
Some crack in the path I took let death seep through.
Some misstep, some hesitation, some stupid fucking trust in Marcus —and now Tommy’s dead.
I look up at Landon, finally, and my eyes burn so hot they feel raw. My cheeks are wet again and I don’t remember when I started crying, but the tears are there, heavy and hot and endless.
“So why is he dead, Lan?” My voice trembles as I speak, barely holding together. “If it’s not my fault… how did he end up dead?”
His eyes lock with mine, and as soon as the concern erupts, Landon’s face twists. The muscle in his cheek jumps, and his hands curl into fists at his sides. I’ve never seen him look murderous and helpless at the same time.
I press on, voice rising, desperate. “The Raiders said— they said —if I did what they asked, if I manipulated Brooke, if I got close, they’d let Tommy live. That was the deal, right? That was the fucking deal.”
“I know,” he says, voice rough.
“And he’s dead.” My voice breaks on the word. I suck in a breath and it comes out wrong, sharp and uneven, like my lungs can’t hold the weight of it. “So what did I do wrong? What did I miss?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and it makes the silence heavier than anything he's ever said. And I’m unraveling.
My body folds in on itself again, knees tucked to my chest, arms shaking as I try to breathe around the weight pressing into me.
The pressure builds like I’m going to implode, like grief and guilt and rage are all clawing at my insides for a way out.
But there’s no space to scream. No air to cry in.
“You didn’t miss anything, Peach,” he whispers, voice tight. His palm runs slowly up my thigh, grounding, steady, and he shifts closer, stretching out across the comforter like he’s trying to shield me from everything that hurts. “You did what you were told.”
“Maybe I wasn’t quick enough,” I mutter, but the words feel hollow, even to me.
“That can’t be it.” Landon’s voice stays low, careful. “Manipulation takes time. Marcus knows that. He gave you the order last week—he wouldn’t have expected a miracle overnight.”
But the way he says manipulation makes something sour coil in my gut. The word tastes dirty, violent. It echoes too loud inside me, because I haven’t even started unpacking what I’ve done to Brooke. What I was willing to do.
How do I look in the mirror now, knowing I was ready to weaponize her heart?
I was going to let her fall. Not just stumble—I was going to push .
I was going to let her fall in love with me.
Completely. Without hesitation. I was going to smile when she called me hers, I was going to kiss her like I meant it, whisper things I’d already decided she wouldn’t get to keep.
I was going to make her want me— need me—and then I was going to walk her straight into the lion’s den.
And all for what?
So the Raiders could rip open her family's legacy, use her name, her access, her love for me, to rob them blind? To crawl into the cracks of the du Pont empire and pry it open from the inside?
I told myself it was for Tommy. That it was worth it. That this was war, and war meant sacrifice. That if I carried enough guilt, wore it like armor, I could survive the wreckage I caused.
I told myself Brooke would be fine.
That she’d hate me and heal and move on—because she could. Because she’s bright and reckless and full of too much light to be ruined by someone like me.
But I? I wouldn’t survive losing him. So I chose.
I made that choice a hundred times, quietly, in the dark.
And now he’s dead anyway.
So what the fuck was the point?
“Landon…” My voice cracks.
He lifts his head, his eyes on me already.
“I was going to fucking ruin her.”
It comes out hoarse. Heavy. Like a confession and a curse.
His brow furrows, his whole body stilling. But he doesn’t pull away.
I almost want him to.
I almost want to see disgust on his face. Something that matches the rot in my chest.
But instead, he just breathes in through his nose, jaw clenched like he’s biting back the pain for both of us.
“You didn’t ruin her,” he says eventually. “You didn’t finish the job.”
“No,” I whisper, eyes burning again. “But I started it. What can I say now? How can I look her in the eye now?”
Landon doesn’t speak for a moment, but I can feel him staring at me—like he’s trying to memorize this version of me too: curled up, hollowed out, barely holding shape.
I wait for judgment. For distance. But what I get is warmth.
Steady, pulsing warmth from the hand still resting on my thigh and the body curled just inches from mine like he’s trying to shoulder the weight of what I can’t say.
He leans forward, pressing his forehead lightly against mine, and when he speaks, his voice is low and raw—something torn from deep inside his chest.
“You don’t get to drown here, Jasmine.”
His words land heavy, but he doesn’t stop. He pulls back just enough for me to see his face, and there’s nothing soft left in him. Just fire and grief.
“I let you have the day. I didn’t touch you, I didn’t push, I didn’t even try to drag you out of bed. I gave you silence, and space, and all the time you needed to fall apart.” His jaw flexes. His eyes burn. “But that ends now.”
I blink, barely breathing.
“Because I know what it’s like,” he says, voice thickening.
“To feel like you didn’t do enough. Like if you’d been faster, or smarter, or more ruthless, maybe they wouldn’t be dead.
I’ve had that guilt in my fucking bones since I was seventeen.
” He exhales hard through his nose, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter.
But it cuts deeper. “They killed my sister, Jasmine.”
That stops my heart, and I look at him again as the salt builds in the back of my throat. “What?”