Page 142 of Discretion at Its Finest

Reid’s jaw flexed once. “Not when it mattered.”

Brielle scoffed, moving forward, my hand catching her shirt to keep her from walking. “It will always matter.” Her voice rose.

Genevieve stepped forward. “Brielle, honey—”

“Let her speak,” Reid said without taking his eyes off his daughter.

Brielle swallowed hard, tears pooling but refusing to fall, her body desperately trying to get free from my grip despite me holding her steady.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like,” she whispered, “to grow up thinking you weren’t wanted byanybody? That my father hated me, that he left me or didn’t care about me? And the whole time—” her voice splintered ”—you were alive?”

“Brielle… I wanted you… I wanted both of you. But having you? Being your father? It wasn’t my choice to disappear. My existence was a threat to powerful men who wanted me hidden. Getting you involved… it would have put you in danger.”

“Danger? I grew up in danger and abandonment with people who treated my brother and me like nothing,” she snapped. “I grew up with Gregory and Cheryl, who stole everything our grandparents left for us and left us to rot, but not before trying to ruin our lives in the midst of it. Do you understand that?” Her voice splintered again. “Do either of you understand what that was like growing up?”

“Your mother couldn’t leave with the two of you either,” Reid explained. “Not when Gregory controlled her money, access, and her entire life…”

I looked down at my wife, watching her chest rise and fall, thoughts racing as she tried to make sense of it all.

“Brielle?” Genevieve attempted. “Honey—” She reached out to her daughter, who shook her head, making her mother falter.

“I can’t… I can’t do this right now,” Brielle whispered before she crossed the room quickly, ignoring everyone, pushing past the silence and the stares.

I was right behind her, ignoring every pair of eyes that landed on my retreating back. I didn’t care that I left them; my wife came first.

Brielle ripped open the patio doors and stepped into the cold. Flurries drifted down from the sky in soft spirals, landing in her hair, melting instantly on her skin.

She stood there, glaring out at the snow like it had personally offended her. Cheeks flushed bright red from the cold, arms folded tight over her chest, shoulders tensed, locked so high they nearly touched her ears.

I walked to her slowly. After so many years of dealing with one another, of loving one another, I knew when my wife was close to exploding.

“…Sweetheart,” I murmured.

She didn’t look at me, her jaw clenching hard. A tear slipped down her cheek and she swiped it away angrily.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

She wasn’t, not even close. I stepped closer, close enough that she could lean into me if she wanted to. I went to speak when her shoulders sagged gently, a small sob escaping her chest. My arms moved before I could think, wrapping around her from behind, my head dipping into her shoulder as she shuddered.

“I said I’m fine,” she gritted out gently, tears streaming down her face.

I nodded. “I know, my darling, I know.”

She stayed silent, letting me hold her. I was thankful she didn’t push me away.

“I-I just wish I had one parent who was there for me… for us.” She shook her head. “I just wish we had someone when we needed them.”

She swallowed hard. Snow drifted around us, the cold biting against her skin, the only warmth being between us.

“Eugene was right,” she whimpered gently. “If they were dead, if they stayed dead to us… it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

“Sweetheart,” I murmured against her temple, “don’t take his pain and call it truth.”

She shook her head again. “But he wasn’t wrong, Killian. It’s easier when they’re dead. When Gregory and Cheryl died? The part of me that wanted their love was hurt, but then it healed… knowing it was for the best. Not knowing if my real mother was alive or not was easier before. Then she reached out and opened a wound I tried to fill, and now… now it feels like it’s happening all over again.”

“You didn’t heal because Gregory or Cheryl were dead,” I continued softly. “You healed because they were finally out of your life and couldn’t keep disappointing you.”

She blinked hard, still staring into the snow. “And your mother?” I murmured, lips brushing the side of her head. “Her coming back didn’t reopen an old wound. It just showed you the wound was still there.”