Chapter 19 #2
“You think Mom would be okay with this?” George spits, his hands coming down on the table and rattling the glasses. “You think she’d want her place handed to a woman promised to her son? Do you think she wouldn’t look at you with disgust—”
“George.” The single word cuts through the air like a knife, angry, growled, enough to make me jump. But George doesn’t seem to flinch.
“No! You don’t get to do this, Dad. You don’t get to play the righteous good guy when we both know what happened the night she died—”
Harry stands.
The room stills, just for a second, just long enough for George to shut his mouth and take a breath.
But he finds the idiotic confidence to keep going, his voice cracking around the words.
“You stood there like a saint while she disintegrated in that house. Do you think I haven’t figured it out?
Do you think I didn’t see what you were giving her? ”
“Do not,” Harry booms, explosive as a gunshot, “talk about your mother like that. You know nothing.”
George exhales raggedly, his jaw steeling. Grace stiffens. Liam, surprisingly, keeps staring at his phone.
Harry speaks the moment George opens his mouth to fire something back, silencing him. “Say one more word and you’ll regret it.”
George looks between the three people actually paying attention, breathing heavily, and shakes his head. “I’m done,” he murmurs. “Enjoy your new little family. But don’t you dare try to kick me off property while I try to figure out my life. You owe me at least that.”
He doesn’t wait for a response — just walks to the door and shoves it open with his shoulder, slamming it so hard behind him that the chandelier shakes.
The lingering silence is suffocating.
Grace lifts her wine glass to her lips, takes a sip, then swirls it. “Well,” she says, her lips going flat, “that went about how I expected.”
Liam sets down his phone. “That was awesome.”
“Liam—”
My hand gently wraps around Harry’s wrist as I stand, my fingertips pressed against his racing pulse. “Are you okay?” I ask, tilting my head just enough to get his attention. “That got ugly fast.”
Harry’s jaw clenches, his nostrils flaring. “I shouldn’t have done it like this. I thought doing it in public would keep him civil.” He pushes back, breaking free of my hand, pacing all of two steps. “But of course, he used the one card he knows gets under my skin.”
“Harry,” Grace says, but he ignores her.
“He has no goddamn right to bring up Geraldine like that,” he snaps. “I know she was his mother. I understand that. But he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
I hesitate, glancing between them. “Was he insinuating…?”
Harry turns sharply, his eyes narrowed. “He blames me. Always has.”
“I’m—”
“There is nothing else to talk about,” he interjects, his voice raising just enough to make me bristle. “She’s dead. He wasn’t there. You weren’t there. I was, and I’ve lived with that night for twelve fucking years, Elena. I’m not going to defend myself to you—”
“Hey, hey, I’m not asking you to—”
“—when George never bothered to be around enough to see it—”
“Stop.” I take a step forward, reaching out to him, but he dodges. “Harry.”
For the first time since I met him, I hear what sounds like a wobble in his voice, his throat working around nothing. “I need air.”
Before I can lunge for him, he’s gone, right out the door with nothing but a lingering silence left behind in the private dining room. I stare at the door, blinking, confused, rattled. The way he shut me down wasn’t fair, the way he pushed back, the way he snapped—
I nearly jump as a hand rests on my shoulder.
“Hey,” Grace says softly, leaning into my peripheral vision, her auburn hair tumbling over one shoulder. “Don’t… don’t take it personally. Harry’s never really been great when emotions run high, and he’s a lot worse when it comes to guilt.”
I swallow. “I didn’t mean to upset him.”
“I know,” she sighs. “Geraldine’s death is just kind of a trigger for both of them. One that George knows exactly how to ignite. And once it’s out there, he just kind of shuts down.”
My hand drifts almost unconsciously to my stomach, my thumb smoothing over the fabric of my dress, before I think to move it. “I wasn’t trying to make it worse.”
“Of course you weren’t,” she reassures. Her voice is soft, soothing, like she’s trying to settle a spooked horse — but it doesn’t ease the ache blossoming in my chest, doesn’t take back the shock at seeing him react like that.
And maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the Highcourts in the years leading up to what was meant to be my marriage to George, maybe I should have done my research on the family I was joining before the wedding. But I didn’t.
I came into this marriage not knowing much of anything about the woman who came before me. And until now, it felt like something I could ignore, something I could offer my condolences on and have empathy over without wanting to know more.
But how am I meant to ignore a ghost sitting at the table?