Page 17 of Shattered In Darkness

He shrugs, barely a motion. It pulls his shirt tighter across his chest. “Not my thing,” he says, voice flat. Not for me but for her, signaling which side he’s on.

But he sits anyway. Drops down into the armchair with the heavy, bored grace of a predator conserving strength. He’s not watching the movie. He’s watching me. I focus on the TV, feigning interest.

Sophie makes a game of it, talking back to the screen, giggling at every stupid joke. She fills my glass again when it’s only half empty, nudging my foot with hers. “You need to relax,” she murmurs. “Let it go, just for tonight.”

I want to. God, I want to. I down the wine. It burns sweet, then bitter. Brody’s gaze drags over me. I try not to look, but I can feel it.

Sophie keeps up the banter, determined to break through the fog. “Remember that dumb movie we saw in sophomore year? The one where the girl faked her death?”

“I think I blocked it out.”

“Looked like you were blocking out something at the studio the other day, too,” Brody’s voice cuts in, icy. His face is carved from stone.

A flush starts at my throat, creeping up. “I was working.”

“It looked like work. If your job is to shove your tits in a guy’s face and bounce on his lap. Not judging. You looked… comfortable.”

Sophie’s eyes dart between us. She doesn’t speak. She never does when the tension gets like this, she just wants it to go away.

I swallow, fighting the urge to shrink back. “I do what I have to do. I didn’t exactly see you volunteering to help.”

Brody leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Didn’t realize you needed help. You always made it clear you could take care of yourself. Guess that was a lie, too.”

It’s almost funny how quick he is to pour acid on any weak spot. I shake my head. “Why do you care? You’re the one who left.”

His jaw flexes, something feral in the way his lips curl. “Yeah. Because I had to. Because you and your family made it clear I didn’t belong here anymore.”

I scrunch my face in confusion. ‘What?”

Sophie clears her throat. “Lola, can you help me grab snacks from the kitchen? Please?”

The reprieve is brief. She tugs me off the couch, warm hand on my arm, and whispers, “Just ignore him. He’s trying to get a rise out of you. He’s always been like that.”

Not always. The Brody I loved would’ve defended me. Now? He wants to see me squirm.

We grab popcorn, but when we return, she gets a text, something urgent about work, and runs off to “fix a crisis,” leaving us alone.

The silence is heavy, crushing the air from the room. I perch at the end of the couch, wine glass clutched like a lifeline. Brody doesn’t move, just studies me. Eyes storm-dark, ringed with something almost tortured, but colder than any winter wind. He waits until the silence is unbearable.

“Do you ever regret it?” His words fall hard, no inflection. “Becoming just like them.”

“Like who?”

He shrugs, gaze flicking to my chest, then back up to my eyes. “The girls who get paid to sit on men’s laps and pretend they like it.”

Each word lands like a slap.

“I’m not pretending,” I shoot back, desperate for some ground to stand on. “It’s a job. Not that you care, but it pays.”

He lets the silence drag. I let the shame bloom in my throat. Brody’s eyes narrow. “If that’s how you rationalize it.”

“You think you know everything?” I spit the words, defensive. “You don’t know what I have to do to survive.”

His voice is barely above a whisper. “I know you could’ve made different choices.”

All my muscles tense, knotting around the old wounds. “Maybe so could you.”

He laughs, bitter, mirthless. “I did. I left.”