Page 216 of Tessa and Nash

I still.

“Don’t come in here acting like everything is normal.”

I almost laugh, which would be a mistake. Normal left this house a long time ago.

Instead, I unbutton my coat one button at a time, buying myself a second to breathe. “I wasn’t aware civility had become a performance.”

He steps closer. “You humiliated me.”

My chest goes very still.

Behind him, deeper in the house, I can hear the faint clink of china from the kitchen. Grandma is home. Of course she is. Which means she can hear this. Which means he knows she can hear this and has decided not to care.

That tells me exactly how bad this is going to be. “I told the truth. The town council needs to know the truth.”

“You stood in front of the entire town,” he snaps, “and let them watch this family get torn apart.”

“No,” I say, steady now. “You’re humiliated because you don’t control the story anymore.”

His expression hardens so fast it almost startles me. “For him. You did it for him.”

I meet his gaze. “I did it for what was right.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A few months ago, I might have deflected. Smoothed it over. Chosen the version of the truth that caused the least damage.

But I am suddenly so tired of peace that only ever means my silence. “Yes. For Nash too.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

He looks at me as though I have become a stranger while he wasn’t paying attention.

Then he laughs, and the sound is ugly.

“Incredible.” He drags a hand over his mouth, pacing two steps before turning back. “You throw everything away for a McCoy and expect me to what? Applaud?”

“This isn’t about him,” I say. “And it’s not about the land either.”

His eyes narrow. “No?”

“No. We’ve already had that argument.” My voice doesn’t rise. “I’m not having it again. This is about you deciding what matters, what’s true, and who gets to say otherwise.”

His nostrils flare. “I am trying to protect this family.”

“No,” I say. “You’re trying to control it.”

“It seems,” he says, each word clipped, “that you’ve forgotten whose roof you’re standing under.”

“No,” I say softly. “I think I’ve just finally remembered that it isn’t yours alone.”

His jaw tightens.

“This house,” I continue, “this family, this history. None of it belongs only to you.”

“You ungrateful little⁠—”

“Thomas.” Grandma’s voice cuts across the hallway like a blade.