Chapter 79: Stuck In The Same Patterns....

The water from the shower has long since dried on my skin, but the memory of it lingers—the way steam curled against the mirror, the way heat seeped into my bones, the way I stood beneath the spray longer than necessary, hoping it would wash away something I couldn’t name.

It didn’t.

I stretch my arms above my head, feeling the pull in my shoulders, the quiet pop in my spine after hours of tension I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.

The warmth of the room wraps around me like a blanket left too long in the dryer—comforting, almost, but heavy.

Too heavy.

I sit on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dips beneath my weight. The sheets are cool against my palms—crisp, clean, faintly scented with my phromense.

I press my hands flat against them, feeling the weave, the slight give of the fabric beneath my fingers. Anything to anchor myself here.

Because the other moment—the one from earlier—keeps drifting back. It floats to the surface of my mind like something drowned that refuses to stay buried.

No matter how hard I push it down, it rises.

I was going to—

My fingers press harder into the sheets. The knuckles whiten.

I was going to kiss him.

His face flashes behind my eyes—the way his brown hair clung to his temples, damp from the rain. The way his eyes shone in the low light of the couch, wide and unguarded.

The way his breath touched my skin—warm, soft, uncertain. I was that close. My lips were that close to his.

I press my fingers hard against my temple.

Dig in.

As if pressure alone can erase what happened. What almost happened. What I can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard I try.

Ellis.

Get a grip.

What the hell is wrong with you?

I close my eyes.

The darkness behind my lids is complete—no shapes, no colors, just the vast emptiness of trying not to see what I’ve already seen.

I breathe in.

The air in the room is warm—too warm, almost suffocating—but I don’t bother lowering the heat.

I let it fill my lungs anyway. Hold it there. Feel it expand against my ribs, demanding space.

Then I release it.

Slowly.

Watching it disappear into the darkness, unseen but lingering.

The silence that follows should feel peaceful. It doesn’t. It’s the kind of silence that waits. That watches. That knows something I don’t.

My phone shatters it.

The ringing cuts through the quiet like a blade—sharp, insistent, unforgiving.

I stay where I am. Still. Listening.

The sound bounces through the room, filling every corner with its demand.

Answer me. Answer me now.

I stand.

The floor is cold beneath my bare feet—a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the shower. I walk toward the bedside table.

Each step slow. Unhurried.

I pick up the phone. The screen glows.

Dad.

The name stares back at me—cold, demanding, shaped by expectations I never asked to carry.

Another meeting. Another dinner. Another lecture disguised as concern. Always something.

I silence the call. The ringing stops.

The silence returns—but it feels different now. Heavier. Charged. Like the quiet before a storm.

I set the phone down. Turn away.

It starts ringing again.

My steps stop. I turn and look at the phone. The screen glows against the dark wood of the bedside table—pulsing, alive, insistent.

So he’s not going to stop.

He never does.

A sigh slips from my lips—frustrated, tired, older than I should feel. The sound lingers briefly in the warm room before dissolving into the silence.

I pick up the phone. Swipe the screen. Press it to my ear.

"Hello."

My voice comes out quieter than intended. Almost flat. The kind of flat that says I’m already tired of this conversation before it’s even begun. The kind that comes from years of conversations that were never really conversations at all.

Dad’s voice pours through the speaker—calm on the surface, but I’ve known him long enough to hear what’s underneath. The impatience. The control. The quiet frustration of a man unused to being ignored.

"Ellis." A deliberate pause follows. "What took you so long to answer?"

The words land like stones dropped into still water. Rippling. Spreading.

"I was taking a bath." My voice doesn’t change. "Why are you calling?"

"Ellis." Another pause. Longer this time. Sharper. "Do I need a reason to call my own son now?"

I stay silent. Then—

"You’re never going to learn manners, are you?" His voice hardens slightly. "You don’t even know how to speak to your own father."

I don’t answer.

What is there to say?

Arguing with him is useless. It’s always been useless. Every word I speak eventually becomes whatever he wants it to be.

He sighs.

The sound travels through the phone like a weight shifting from one shoulder to the other—heavy, deliberate, performed for an audience of one.

"Anyway." His voice softens slightly. The way it always does when he’s about to ask for something he already expects me to give. "Where’s Silas? Why don’t you two come to dinner anymore? Have you forgotten your parents now that you’re married?"

I stare at the glass wall across the room.

Rain from earlier still streaks the surface—thin trails of water catching the dim light like veins of silver. Each droplet follows the same path as the one before it. Over and over. Never changing.

He’s talking like we were ever close before the marriage. Like we had dinners. Laughter. Warmth.

We didn’t.

We had meetings. Lectures. Demands dressed up as concern.

He only called when he needed me to read someone’s mind. That’s all. That’s always been all.

"Dad." My voice stays steady. Quiet. The kind of quiet that cuts deeper than shouting. "I know you’re not missing me. You’re missing your precious prince. So if you want to see him, call him. Not me."

"Ellis..." His voice sharpens slightly, the velvet finally pulling back to reveal the steel beneath. "Stop this nonsense."

"Dad." My voice remains calm. Measured. "I know that’s not the real reason you called."

A pause. Deliberate. Letting the weight of my words settle between us.

"So get to the point."

Silence. Then—a quiet cough. Papers shifting somewhere in the background.

His study. Of course.

Another small pause follows, like he’s deciding which weapon to use this time.

"Tomorrow." His voice turns controlled again. Professional. The voice he uses in boardrooms and negotiations. "You’re attending an important meeting with your brother."

A beat.

"Don’t be late."

My eyes remain fixed on the glass wall.

Rainwater still slides down the surface in slow trails, tracing the same paths over and over again. Like it’s forgotten how to do anything else.

Like me.

Stuck in the same patterns. The same arguments. The same helpless obedience.

"Why would I attend a meeting?" My voice stays quiet. Flat. "I haven’t joined the business yet."

His voice rises—just slightly, just enough to reveal the crack in his composure, the fraying edge of his patience.

"Ellis." The word comes out sharp. Almost a snap. "Don’t make me repeat myself. You know exactly why you’re attending." A beat. "So don’t be late."

"I’m not coming."

Silence. The kind that settles before a storm. Heavy.Suffocating.

Then—

His voice cracks.

The polished mask slips. The velvet falls away. And underneath is something I’ve heard before. Anger, yes. But something older too. Something colder.

"Ellis."

My name sounds like a warning. Like a threat. Like the first stone dropped from a great height.

"You’re testing my patience. Again." A shallow breath follows, controlled but strained. "No matter how much you resist—you are coming."

I don’t answer.

I pull the phone away from my ear. My thumb finds the red button. Presses. The call ends. The line goes silent.

I stand there for a moment—phone still in my hand, arm hanging loosely at my side.

The glass wall. The dripping rain. My blurred reflection staring back at me.

Then I throw the phone. It lands on the bed with a soft thud—too soft for the violence behind the gesture, too soft for the frustration moving beneath my skin.

The mattress swallows the sound. Swallows the impact. It doesn’t swallow the anger.

I rub my temple.

The skin there feels warm. Tender. The beginning of a headache pulses behind my eyes—slow and steady, like a heartbeat I never asked for.

Their meetings always give me headaches.

The people. The minds. The noise.

I close my eyes.

Darkness settles behind my lids. But even here— In the quiet. In the dark. I can still feel the ghost of his breath against my skin.

Soft. Warm.

Too close.

Too close.