84 - Back Where she Belong
Rain whispered against the wide bay windows, each droplet tapping the glass with a soft, patient rhythm—as if the sky itself were trying to soothe the house into sleep.
Outside, the world was washed in gray. The kind of gray that blurred edges. Muted colors. Slowed time.
Inside, warmth lived.
Amber lamplight pooled gently across worn wooden floors and climbed the familiar floral curtains that hadn't changed in years. The light didn't just illuminate the room—it held it, cradled it, preserved it like something fragile and irreplaceable.
The air was thick with memory.
Spiced chai simmered on the stove, its aroma curling through the rooms like an old song.
Beneath it lingered the scent of aged pine from furniture that had outlived fashions and arguments and decades.
Laundry soap clung faintly to knitted throws and crocheted cushions, carrying with it the quiet ghosts of childhood winters, movie nights, and the kind of safety that only ever existed in one place in the world.
Home.
Scarlett sat curled into the corner of the old couch, her knees drawn to her chest, arms loosely wrapped around them as if she wasn't sure whether she meant to hold herself together or hold herself back.
The cushions dipped familiarly beneath her weight, recognizing her the way no mansion, no penthouse, no designer sofa ever had.
Her shoulders sagged.
Not dramatically. Not weakly. Just... honestly.
The tension she wore like armor in the outside world had softened here, its edges worn down by the quiet. By the warmth. By the simple fact that no one here demanded anything from her.
Her gaze drifted to the mantel.
Framed photographs stood in a neat, slightly crooked row.
Faded snapshots.
Her brother with missing front teeth and grass stains on his knees.
A younger Scarlett mid-laugh, head thrown back, hair wild and untamed.
Her parents in matching Christmas sweaters, grinning like they'd invented happiness.
Her chest rose slowly.
Then—
Creak.
A floorboard.
Scarlett blinked, pulled from memory.
In the hallway stood a figure wrapped in a faded blue housecoat and slippers, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe as if she needed it to steady herself.
Emma.
Her graying hair was twisted into a loose knot, strands escaping in soft wisps. Her brows lifted—not sharply, not accusingly, just... surprised. Curious. Relieved.
"Scarlett?"
Her voice was gentle, but alert. The tone of a mother whose instincts never really slept.
"This is a surprise. You didn't call."
Scarlett unfolded from the couch slowly, like her body had to remember how to move in this house again. She gave a faint smile, though her throat felt dry, her voice rough from disuse.
"Yeah, I know. I just..." She exhaled lightly. "I needed to be here."
Emma stepped closer.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough.
Her eyes scanned Scarlett's face with quiet precision, taking inventory of things no mirror would show—shadows under her eyes, tension in her jaw, the way her fingers kept brushing against her sleeves.
"Mm-hmm," Emma hummed, one brow arching with maternal accuracy. "You're not running away from something, are you?"
The teasing note was there.
But so was weight.
Years of watching. Years of knowing. Years of hearing what wasn't said.
Scarlett let out a laugh.
It sounded right.
It just didn't reach her eyes.
"No," she said smoothly, sidestepping the question with the practiced grace of someone who'd learned long ago how to redirect truth. "Just needed a break. That's all."
Before Emma could respond—
The front door burst open.
Cold air rushed in like an uninvited guest, carrying the smell of rain and damp pavement and the sound of muddy shoes stomping across the entryway.
"Is that my daughter I hear?"
Mathew's voice filled the house—booming, warm, unmistakably delighted.
Scarlett turned instantly.
And this time, her face lit up for real.
"Dad!"
She crossed the room in three quick strides—no hesitation, no composure, no restraint—and the next second she was swept into his arms.
Mathew wrapped around her like a fortress. Solid. Safe. Unshakable.
He smelled like rain-soaked wool and pipe tobacco, even though he hadn't smoked in years. Somehow, the scent had never left him. It clung to him like a signature.
"Well, look at you," he said, pulling back just enough to examine her face, his large hands still gripping her shoulders as if confirming she was real. "Still too thin. What, they don't feed you at that fancy mansion of yours?"
Scarlett rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered.
"I eat. I just don't have Mom's cooking every day."
From somewhere around the corner, another voice drifted in—lazy, amused.
"Well, well. Look who remembered she has a family."
Scarlett leaned slightly to peer past Mathew's shoulder.
Adam stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, thumbs still lazily tapping the buttons of a game controller. His smirk was infuriatingly perfect—the kind only younger brothers were genetically engineered to produce.
Without missing a beat, Scarlett snatched a throw pillow from the armchair and hurled it across the room.
"Watch it, kid."
Adam ducked smoothly, laughter already spilling out of him. "Reflexes are still sharp, I see."
The room filled with laughter.
Not polite laughter.
Not social laughter.
Real laughter. Loud. Warm. Unfiltered.
Emma stood in the archway watching them, her stern composure dissolving inch by inch until a soft smile replaced it. She turned toward the kitchen, slippers whispering against the floor.
"I'll start dinner," she called over her shoulder. "Feels like it's been a century since we all sat down together."
—
Scarlett drifted into the kitchen a little while later, pulled there by sound before intention.
The clang of pots. The soft hiss of butter. The layered aroma of rosemary, garlic, and something rich enough to make her stomach tighten in anticipation.
The kitchen hadn't changed.
White cabinets.
Sunflower magnets still clinging to the fridge.
And there—on the counter—
The crack.
A thin jagged line in the surface from when she'd dropped a skillet as a teenager. She remembered the crash. The panic. Emma's sigh. Mathew's laugh.
Emma handed her a cutting board without a word, already halfway through chopping carrots with swift, efficient strokes.
Scarlett rolled up her sleeves and stepped beside her.
Knife. Potato. Peel.
For a while, there was only rhythm.
Slice.
Chop.
Tap.
From the other room, Adam's video game buzzed faintly, punctuated by occasional button mashing and distant muttering.
Then, casually—
"So... how's married life treating you?"
Scarlett's knife paused.
Just a heartbeat too long.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, buying herself half a second.
"It's good," she said quietly. "Busy. We both are, all the time."
Emma hummed.
"Mm. Busy's the new normal, I suppose."
Another beat.
Carrot slices gathered beneath Emma's blade. Her tone stayed light.
Her eyes didn't.
"Ethan didn't want to come?"
Scarlett stiffened.
Barely.
A microscopic tightening of her spine. A breath caught too shallow.
It might've gone unnoticed.
If Emma hadn't been watching for it.
"He had work. Something came up last minute," Scarlett said quickly, voice neutral, smooth.
Emma didn't respond. She scraped the carrots into a bowl, back turned now.
Ethan.
The thought hit her chest like a storm. That kiss—unprotected, unguarded—burned still, igniting a need she couldn't name. Catherine. His gaze elsewhere, and yet the emptiness it left hollowed her chest beneath the fire.
How could he be everything and nothing at once?
Hatred should have been simple. But every beat of her heart screamed his name.
"Careful," Emma's light voice drew her back. "That bowl cost more than your first bicycle."
Scarlett startled slightly and blinked again, grounding herself back into the room. "Right. Sorry."
She crossed to the table and set the dish down gently, forcing her breathing to settle.
You're home.
He's not here.
You're safe.
Her mind didn't listen. Because safety had started to feel suspicious lately.
Scarlett reached for the potatoes.
"So," she said brightly—too brightly—"what are we making tonight? It smells like heaven here."
Emma glanced over her shoulder.
She let it go.
For now.
"Your favorite," she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Roasted chicken. Mashed potatoes. And that mushroom gravy you always claim you hate before licking the bowl."
Scarlett laughed.
This time it rang true.
"I've never claimed that."
"Not with words, maybe," Emma replied, nudging her lightly with her elbow.
They worked side by side after that, slipping into an old rhythm their bodies remembered without instruction. Shoulders bumped. Hands brushed. Knives clicked in quiet harmony.
Emma talked as she cooked—about Mrs. Linden's latest catastrophe at the garden club, about a box of Scarlett's high school photos she'd found hidden behind the linen closet, about neighbors, gossip, and tiny domestic dramas that felt wonderfully insignificant.
And for a while—
Scarlett breathed.
Not the shallow, guarded breaths she took in boardrooms and marble hallways and beneath Ethan Blackwood's unreadable gaze.
Real breaths.
Slow.
Full.
Safe.
—
By the time the food was ready, twilight had begun to stain the windows blue.
Mother and daughter carried dishes toward the living room, still laughing over Emma's retelling of Scarlett's disastrous prom hairstyle—pins falling out, curls collapsing, a frantic last-minute rescue attempt involving hairspray and prayer.
Scarlett pushed the doorway curtain aside—
Still smiling.
Still mid-laugh.
And then—
Her laughter died.
Cut clean.
Her steps stopped.
Her pulse slammed once against her ribs.
He was there.
Ethan Blackwood.