Page 39 of Broken Blades

But not chaotic at all.

Not drunk.

Not reckless.

Just controlled.

Utterly, completely controlled.

Like every second had been calculated. Every breath timed. Every touch—however brief—placed exactly where he wanted it.

Dad's voice cut through the memory. "He has a temper."

The words felt wrong. Dissonant. Like describing fire as cold or ice as burning.

I remembered Wyatt's stillness. The way he'd stood in that restaurant. Calm. Unhurried. Not a single tell. Not a flicker of emotion crossing that scarred face. Even when delivering threats wrapped in pleasantries. Even when watching my father crumble.

That wasn't temper. That was something far more dangerous. That was control so complete it felt like watching a machine operate. Gears turning. Calculations running. Strategy unfolding with mathematical precision. Temper implied chaos. Implied emotion overriding reason. Implied cracks in the facade.

Wyatt had no cracks.

I turned to Dad. "If you think he did this on purpose, why would you send me to him?"

The question hung sharp between us. Accusation and confusion tangled together. Because none of this made sense. None of it tracked. If Wyatt orchestrated the scandal, if he wanted to destroy us, why hand me over? Why give him exactly what he wanted? What kind of father did that?

Dad's jaw worked. His hands flexed on the wheel. The silence stretched long enough that I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, "Because he won't expose us."

Us.

The word landed like a punch.

Not you. Not your reputation. Not even the family.

Us.

Whatever this was—whatever history lived between them, whatever misunderstanding Dad refused to name—it went deeper than me. Bigger than a garden photo. Wider than one month of forced proximity.

I was collateral damage in a war I didn't understand. A chess piece moved across a board I couldn't see. And my father had just traded me to the enemy to protect something he valued more.

The house felt different when we walked through the door. Like the walls had shifted inward while we were gone. Pressing closer. Stealing air. Making everything feel compressed and fragile. Less safe.

Mom stood at the kitchen island. Hands braced against the marble. Shoulders hunched forward in a way I'd never seen before. She looked up when we entered. Face drawn. Eyes red-rimmed. The careful polish she always wore cracked around the edges.

She moved toward me. Arms outstretched. The familiar gesture of comfort she'd offered a thousand times before. Every skinned knee. Every failed test. Every heartbreak that felt world-ending at seventeen.

But this was different.

I stiffened without meaning to. Body going rigid before she even touched me. Some instinct firing. Some warning bell ringing low in my gut that said nothing about this was comforting. Nothing about this was protection.

Her arms wrapped around me, anyway. Held me close. I stood there locked in place. Breathing in her familiar perfume—stronger than usual, like she'd reapplied it recently—feeling her fingers press into my back.

She whispered against my hair. "It's just for a little while."

The words trembled. Fragile. Desperate. Like she was trying to convince herself more than me.

Dad's voice cut in from behind us. Flat. Factual. "Thirty days."

Thirty days sounded like a sentence. Like time I'd have to serve. A punishment for crimes I didn't commit. For being in the wrong place. For needing help with a zipper. For existing as leverage in a war I still didn't understand.