Chapter 5
Skyler
Morning arrives not with a sunrise, but with a gray shift in the shadows of my childhood bedroom. I haven’t slept so much as lost consciousness for an hour, my body rigid on a mattress that costs more than my first car.
I stare at the ceiling and for a split second, I forget. I reach out, expecting to feel the warmth of Harley’s skin, the tangle of her hair on the pillow, but my hand hits empty Egyptian cotton instead.
Right. The guest wing. The rules. The exile.
The clock on the nightstand reads seven-fifteen.
Downstairs, the house is already waking up.
I can hear the phantom rhythm of the staff preparing breakfast, a machine that runs on silence and polished silver.
I drag myself out of bed, my limbs heavy.
Today is the day I draw the line. Today is the day I speak up.
But as I walk to the bathroom and catch my reflection—hollow eyes, stubble, the ghost of the boy who used to hide in this room—the rehearsed speeches from last night dissolve like sugar in hot tea.
The smell of coffee drifts up the grand staircase, dark and expensive. It should be comforting—a signal of a new day—but in this house, even the coffee smells like an obligation.
I step into the hallway. The house is silent in that heavy, expensive way that old money dictates. No creaking floorboards, no humming refrigerator. Just the muffled quiet of thick carpets and thicker walls, designed to keep secrets in and emotions out.
My steps are soundless as I head toward the guest wing. I told Harley business casual for breakfast, repeating my father’s instructions like a good soldier. The memory tastes like bile. I pause at the top of the stairs, my hand hovering over the banister. The dining room awaits. The arena.
I take a breath that doesn’t quite fill my lungs.
Do better, I told myself at three a.m. Be stronger.
But standing here, surrounded by three generations of judgmental portraits, I don’t feel like a fighter.
I feel like a man walking to his own execution, hoping the woman he loves doesn’t watch him die.
I force my feet to move, descending the staircase that feels more like a precipice.
Faint voices drift from the breakfast nook—the sun-drenched space my mother prefers for morning interrogations.
It is a bright, airy room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rose garden, a setting designed to deceive you into thinking the conversation is casual.
It never is.
I pause in the archway, observing the tableau before they notice me.
Harley sits at the glass-topped table, her posture rigid, hands wrapped around a coffee cup as if it’s the only solid thing in the world.
She is wearing the navy blouse—conservative, professional, safe.
My mother stands by the sideboard, inspecting a silver platter of pastries with the scrutiny she usually reserves for tax audits.
The distance between them is only a few feet, but the emotional chasm is vast enough to swallow us whole. I straighten my tie, the silk feeling tight against my throat, and step into the room. The air changes instantly, thickening with the specific gravity of my mother’s presence.
Harley spots me first. A flicker of relief crosses her face, quickly followed by the return of her polite mask. She turns back to my mother, her voice steady but laced with the exhausting effort of peacemaking.
“Thank you again for your hospitality, Mrs. Thompson. It means a lot to us.”
“Well, we couldn’t have Skyler staying in some hotel, could we? Quite unseemly.”
The “Skyler” and not “you both” hangs in the air between them.
“I’ve had Jerome prepare a light breakfast,” Mother continues. “I can’t imagine how badly you need a proper meal, darling.”
Before I can respond, Father’s broad-shouldered silhouette fills the doorway.
Like a statue suddenly animated, he descends the front steps, each movement efficient and purposeful.
At sixty-two, Robert Thompson still carries himself like the collegiate rower he once was: spine straight, shoulders squared, chin lifted at the precise angle to look down at the world without appearing to try.
“The Henderson models arrived this morning. Thought you might want to take a look.”
Work. Always work. The Thompson love language consists entirely of productivity and achievement.
“Thanks, Dad. Maybe later today.”
Father’s attention briefly shifts to Harley, offering a nod so slight it barely qualifies as acknowledgment. “Ms. Matthews.”
Not Harley. Certainly not “future daughter-in-law.” Just Ms. Matthews, like a stranger who wandered onto his property.
“Good morning, Mr. Thompson.” Harley’s smile remains steady, professional. “Thank you for opening your home to us.”
Father’s expression doesn’t change. “Skyler is always welcome here.”
Another clear delineation. I belong; Harley is tolerated.
I see it in the way he stands. The way his gaze lands on Harley and slides off, like she’s made of glass.
The way my mother pours coffee for me, but not for her.
The way the entire house is calibrated to erase her, or at least, render her irrelevant.
“As is Harley,” I say, speaking up.
“Of course,” Dad says, like he didn’t imply otherwise.
Mother, sensing the need to pivot, does. “Did you sleep well?” She’s smiling, but her eyes are already searching for flaws in Harley’s posture, her clothes, her very presence.
Harley nods, polite, careful. “Yes. Thank you.”
“The east-facing windows have the best view in the house,” Mother says, as if Harley picked it out of a catalog.
Harley’s knuckles tighten around the mug. I feel the pause in my bones. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the view is. The point is, we’re sleeping apart.
“It’s lovely,” she says finally.
Mother turns to me, satisfied. “You’re both expected at the club next Saturday. Brunch with the Davises.”
I resist groaning, but at least Amanda won’t be there. “Ah, okay. I’ll ask them to give Amanda my best.”
“Oh, didn’t you know? She’s back from Paris. She switched firms. You two should have a lot to catch up on.” The implication hangs in the air, unspoken but razor-sharp. Amanda, the one who would have fit.
I don’t glance at Harley, but I don’t have to. I can feel her shrinking, molecule by molecule, across the table from me.
But I have nothing to hide, so I say, “I didn’t know. Amanda and I haven’t kept in touch.”
Father lifts the coffee pot, refills his cup, then mine. Nothing for Harley. No one offers. I do though. Without asking, I switch our cups so she has my full one, and I have her empty one.
Mother pretends not to notice. She takes a croissant and tears it in half with careful fingers. “I hope the mold situation hasn’t affected your health, Harley. Those things can be quite…insidious, if left unchecked.”
Harley meets her gaze, steady. “It was discovered early. We moved out as soon as the building inspector advised.”
Mother hums, noncommittal. “Some people are more susceptible than others, I suppose.”
Father flips open the Wall Street Journal. “You’ll want to deal with your building manager directly, Skyler. Legal recourse is often necessary in these cases.”
“I’ll look into it,” I say, though I’m certain the work is already done. Knowing Harley, she likely spent hours last night scouring every clause and filing every form while I laid in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling.
Harley doesn’t correct me. She just sips her coffee, a silent concession.
Jerome appears, silent as a ghost, to clear the empty plates. He nods to Harley, who gives him a real smile, softer than the one she wears for my parents. I watch the exchange, the brief flicker of human connection, and something twists in my chest.
Breakfast ends the way it always does: with my father rising first, his chair scraping back like a gunshot in the perfect room.
“Henderson at one,” he says. “Don’t be late.”
He leaves without waiting for a response.
Mother dabs at her mouth with a linen napkin. “I’d love to schedule fittings for the wedding. Harley, you’ll want to bring your dress as soon as you get it. The seamstress has limited availability.”
Harley nods. “Of course.”
Mother stands, smoothing her slacks. “You know where to find me.”
She glides out, her perfume lingering behind her like a warning.
Now it’s just us. The sunlight is sharp and cold, making the silverware gleam. Harley sets her cup down, careful not to make a sound.
I reach for her hand, but she’s already pulling away, gathering her things.
“You okay?” I ask, hating myself for how small my voice sounds.
She doesn’t look at me. “I have to go. Intake interviews at the courthouse. I’ll be home late.”
Home. I almost laugh. Home is a word that doesn’t belong in this house.
The rest of the day is a blur of numbing tasks. Calls to the remediation team; emails with the insurance adjuster. Endless spreadsheets for my father, every line item a reminder of how little control I have.
By the time dinner rolls around, I feel like a ghost in my own life.
Harley isn’t back yet. I text her. No reply.
Mother asks if I want to eat in the formal dining room or the kitchen. I say kitchen, hoping for something less performative.
She sits across from me, salad on a porcelain plate. She asks about the wedding. If I’ve reconsidered the country club. If I’ve heard from Amanda lately.
I tell her no to all of it.
She sips her water, watching me over the rim. “You know, Skyler, it’s not too late to change your mind.”
I stare at her. I can’t believe she said it out loud.
“Harley and I are getting married.” My voice is steady for the first time all day, but the muscles in my neck are corded.
She doesn’t blink. “Of course. I’m just saying… Life is long. Mistakes can be corrected.”
Vision blurring at the edges, a hot, prickling sensation stings behind my eyes. I want to throw my glass across the room. I want to see the porcelain shatter.
Instead, I set my fork down with a sharp clack against the plate, my trembling enough for her to notice. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Mother’s smile is thin. “I’m only thinking of your happiness, darling. You deserve someone who makes things easier, not harder.”
I push my chair back. “Excuse me.”
I leave the kitchen and don’t look back.
Harley comes in after ten. I hear the click of her heels in the hallway, the sigh as she finally closes the door behind her.
I want to go to her. I want to explain, to confess how much I hate it here, how much I hate who I become around my parents.
But I don’t. I just stand at the window, watching her silhouette cross the lawn toward the guest wing, her shoulders hunched against the dark.
I should follow.
I should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I listen to the silence pressing in from every side and wonder how many more nights like this we have before there’s nothing left between us but apologies and empty promises.
Because if I go to her now, I have to admit how much my mother’s words rattled me, and in this house, a reaction is an invitation for more pain.
I have to be the stable one. I can’t end up like Steven.
My brother has turned into a “cautionary tale” whispered over dinner parties.
A disappointment, not good enough for our family name.
Meanwhile, I’ve spent my adult life perfecting the art of being a stone, thinking that if I didn’t give my parents a reaction, they couldn’t hurt me.
I text her. Are you okay?
No reply.
I stand there, staring at the screen, waiting for something to change.
It doesn’t.