Chapter 3
I looked at the carving knife on the floor, lying beside Genesis’s chair.
“Yes,” I said. “But no one is holding it.”
Genesis’s mouth tightened.
“Tell them,” she said, “that you are confused. Tell them we are handling this privately.”
I stared at her.
For years, I had tried to understand Genesis Vale.
When Jackson and I were first engaged, I believed she disliked me because I was new. Because I had not been raised in their world of catered charity luncheons, silent grudges, and inherited furniture. I mistook her sharpness for protectiveness. I told myself that mothers sometimes resented daughters-in-law because love felt like competition.
Later, I told myself she was lonely. Then that she was difficult. Then that she was old-fashioned. Then that perhaps I was too sensitive.
But sitting there with blood cooling on my skin, I finally saw the truth clearly.
Genesis did not dislike me because I had taken her son.
She disliked me because she had failed to take me.
She had mistaken kindness for weakness. Patience for permission. Marriage for surrender.
And tonight, she had overplayed her hand.
“No,” I said.
Her expression hardened.
The word seemed to land more heavily than anything else I had said all evening.
No.
One syllable. A locked door. A line drawn in ink.
Jackson stepped toward me.
Marcus moved before I did, placing himself between us. He wasn’t a large man like Jackson, but there was something firm in his shoulders, something decided.
“Back up,” Marcus said.
Jackson stared at him. “Are you kidding me?”
May you like
“No,” Marcus replied. “I’m not.”
I had never heard Marcus speak to his brother like that. He was usually the family comedian, always smoothing things over with a joke, always stepping away from conflict before it had a chance to stick to him. But now his face was pale, and his eyes kept moving between me and the recorder beside my bag.
