That word—we—was his favorite illusion. He used it whenever there was something polished, profitable, or impressive enough to attach himself to. I had noticed it long ago. I just hadn’t yet accepted what it truly meant.
He leaned against the kitchen island, sipping his bourbon. “Dylan’s bringing the family around five. Lauren’s packing up the kids now. They lost the house—foreclosure.”
I looked up from a box of first-edition hardcovers I had been unpacking. “Excuse me?”
“There’s plenty of space,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the east wing. “This place is massive, Maddie.”
“You don’t make decisions like that on your own, Ethan. Not about my home.”
That was when something shifted.
It wasn’t explosive. That’s what made it so unsettling. No raised voice, no dramatic anger—just a quiet flattening in his eyes, as if the performance had ended and the real machinery underneath had finally been revealed.
“Don’t start,” he said.
“I’m asking why you decided to move five people into my house without even speaking to me.”
He laughed. Short. Sharp. Ugly.
“Your house?”
My stomach tightened. “Yes. My house.”