* Present day *
The courthouse trip doesn't happen.
Instead, I watch Caspian stare at his coffee like it contains classified intelligence, his phone face-down on the counter in a way that screams I'm definitely not checking it every thirty seconds. He checks it every thirty seconds.
"Everything okay?" I ask, casual as a heart attack.
"Fine. Just processing."
Processing. His favorite non-answer since Edward's visit. The man who could argue tax law while skydiving has suddenly developed a vocabulary of exactly two words.
"Processing what, specifically?"
"Family stuff. Nothing to worry about."
Aria is in the living room, building a block tower and explaining structural engineering to Mr. Whiskers. At least someone's having a good morning.
I give him until lunch to brood. By noon, the patience experiment has officially failed.
I find him in the home office, staring at his laptop like it contains nuclear codes. The tension in his shoulders could cut diamonds, and when I close the door behind me, he actually flinches.
"Okay." I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "What are you hiding?"
"I'm not—"
"You've checked your phone forty-seven times since breakfast. You've said maybe twelve words total. And you're doing that thing with your jaw that you do when you're about to make a decision I'm going to hate." I raise an eyebrow. "So. What is it?"
Something in his expression cracks, and the words come out in fragments.
"My father suggested something. Before he left. A PR strategy."
"What kind of strategy?"
"He wants me to reconnect with someone. Publicly. Present a united front against the tabloid narrative. Show that I have support from—" He stops, swallows. "From established circles."
The phrase established circles lands wrong. Too careful. Too rehearsed.
"Who, specifically, does he want you to reconnect with?"
"Victoria Chase."
The name hits like a slap.
Victoria Chase. Actress. Socialite. The woman whose face graced society pages throughout our entire Columbia career. Caspian's girlfriend for two years, maybe three—I tried not to keep track, which means I kept meticulous track of every single photograph.
The woman I've successfully not thought about for a decade. Except that's a lie. I've thought about Victoria Chase plenty. Wondering what she had that I didn't—besides money, connections, and cheekbones that could cut glass.
"Victoria Chase." My voice comes out flat. "Your ex-girlfriend. Edward wants you to publicly reconnect with your ex-girlfriend."
"It's not about reconciliation. It's about optics. Showing the board, the media, that I have backing from—"
"From people who aren't me." The words taste like battery acid. "From someone appropriate. Someone whose background isn't uncertain."
"Serena, that's not—"
"Did you know?" I interrupt, because if I don't ask now, I'll lose the nerve. "Did you know what she was like? At Columbia. Did you know what she did to me?"
His confusion is genuine, which is exactly the problem.
"What she did to you? You barely knew each other."
The laugh that escapes me is bitter and sharp. "Right. We barely knew each other. Because Victoria made damn sure of that."
I push off from the doorframe and start moving—can't stand still for this, can't have this conversation without my hands doing something. The home office has a wet bar I've never touched, and I start reorganizing the glasses by height.
"There was a party. Sophomore year. Economics department mixer." The glasses clink as I adjust them. "I was trying to network with Professor Harrison. Get published in the undergraduate journal. And Victoria materialized out of nowhere."
I set down a tumbler harder than necessary.
"Asked if 'introductory track students' had opinions on 'advanced policy discussions.' Dismissed me so sweetly that objecting would have made me look hysterical."
"Serena—"
"That was just the beginning." The glasses are perfectly arranged now, so I move to the bookshelves. "Study groups that mysteriously filled up whenever I tried to join. Whispered comments about scholarship students who didn't know their place."
I shove a book into place.
"Her friends cataloguing my failures at that party—my shoes, my dress, the 'try-hard energy' of someone who'd never belong."
Caspian's face has gone pale. "I had no idea."
"Of course you didn't." The books slam into place harder than necessary. "You were floating through Columbia on privilege while people like me fought for scraps in your blind spot."
I turn to face him, hands shaking but voice steady.
"Victoria was easy. Unchallenging. The path of least resistance. You never had to examine what she was like to outsiders because outsiders didn't register."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? Four years, Cas. Four years of her making me feel like garbage every chance she got. And you had no idea because you weren't paying attention. Because it didn't affect you."
He moves toward me, but I step back. Need the distance.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't—"
"I believe you. That's almost worse. At least if you'd known, it would have been a choice. Instead, it was just—obliviousness. Privilege so complete you couldn't see past it."
The silence stretches. I've run out of things to organize, so my hands find a cloth and start wiping down the wet bar. Already clean. Don't care.
"My father's suggestion isn't about reconciliation," Caspian says finally. "It's about control. If I refuse outright, he'll spin it—say I'm hiding something. But if I play along strategically, maybe I can use Victoria to expose Edward's manipulation."
The cloth in my hand goes still.
"You want to spend time with your ex-girlfriend and call it tactics. How convenient."
"I want to protect our family from my father. If that means having coffee with someone I dated years ago—"
"Someone who tortured me." I throw the cloth down. "Someone who made me feel like garbage every chance she got. And you want me to smile while you rehabilitate her reputation?"
"I'm not asking you to smile. I'm asking you to trust that I know how to handle my father."
"By cozying up to Victoria Chase? The same strategy he used on you for thirty years? Think strategically, Caspian—that's what he always taught you, right?"
The blow lands. I see it in the flinch he can't quite hide.
"That's not fair," he repeats quietly, sounding like a kicked dog. I don’t care anymore.
"None of this is fair." My voice breaks, and I hate it. "I finally have something real. Something I fought for, clawed for, survived seven years of single motherhood to build. And your father walks in and decides Victoria Chase is the appropriate face of your support system. Not me. Never me."
"You're the only face that matters to me."
"Then prove it. Tell him no. Tell Victoria no. Choose me over strategy for once in your life."
He's quiet for a long moment. Too long.
"It's more complicated than that."
"It's really not. Either I'm worth more than a PR opportunity, or I'm not. Either you trust me to handle your father together, or you'd rather handle him with her."
"I'm trying to protect you—"
"I don't need protection!" The spice rack gets reorganized with more force than necessary.
"I need a partner. I need someone who includes me in the planning instead of presenting finished strategies. I need you to understand that asking me to be okay with you spending time with Victoria Chase is asking me to relive every humiliation she ever inflicted."
"And if there's no other way to stop him?"
I turn, eyes burning but refusing to cry.
"Then we find another way. Together. Or we don't find one at all."
The impasse hangs between us. He sees strategy; I see betrayal. Neither of us is entirely wrong, which makes everything worse.
"I need to think," he says finally.
"You do that. I'm taking Aria to the park. She needs fresh air, and I need to not look at your face for an hour."
The door closes behind me, and I don't look back.