He turned the quartz gently so I could see the way it caught the sun, the brokenness inside glowing like it had swallowed fire. "This stone doesn't hide what it's been through. It wears it. It carries it like a kind of armor, but also like art. That's what makes it so rare. So real."
"Some stones only shine because of the pressure," he said softly, eyes fixed on the light dancing within the quartz. "The fractures, the wounds—that's where the light finds its way in. That's where it travels. That's where it lives. What looks like damage becomes the place where beauty escapes."
He turned toward me, quiet for a moment, then reached into the small velvet pouch again. This time, he pulled out a piece of shungite—dark as the void, opaque, with a weight that feltmore like gravity than stone. It wasn't pretty in the usual way. There was no glint, no sparkle, only an unshakable stillness. A presence that whispered strength in silence.
When he placed it in my palm, my hand stilled. Something in me stilled, too. The weight of it wasn't overwhelming—it was reassuring. Like the feeling of the earth beneath bare feet after drifting too long in a storm of thought and memory. It reminded me that I was still here. That I hadn't floated away completely.
"This," Billy said, "is your anchor. Shungite doesn't crumble under pressure. It absorbs, it protects, it holds. Even when everything else is falling apart, it stays. It remains."
He looked at me then, not just at my face, but at the pieces of me I was trying to keep from spilling everywhere. There was no pity in his expression, only knowing. Recognition. He had seen me unravel, and he had chosen not to flinch.
"You're not one or the other, December. You never were. You are both. Quartz and shungite. Light and dark. Breakable and unbreakable. You are the brilliance that moves through every fracture, and the solid, steady weight that keeps from being swept away. You are the scar that catches the sun, and the stone that stands through the storm."
I looked down at the stones in my hands. One glowing through its brokenness. One silent with strength. I wanted to say something. Wanted to tell him how I felt like one of those broken shards, sharp, discarded, not beautiful enough to be held. How heartbreak hadn't just cracked me open, it had hollowed me out. How I still carried Ryder's voice in my chest like shrapnel.
But something shifted in me. Something softened. Not in weakness, but in the way winter begins to loosen its grip just before spring arrives. Not a thaw, but a promise.
Then, the door opened suddenly and Margot said, "Dec, I think you should see this."
We followed her back inside, where the television was already flickering, and there he was. Standing behind a podium, flanked by January and a wall of sharp-suited lawyers. Cameras flashed like lightning, catching every angle of Ryder's carefully composed face.
What was going on?
Chapter 13: Blackmail of Blood
Senator Richard Golding (POV)
The call with Harding ended, leaving my office shrunken, as if the walls had inched closer with every word she had spoken. Shadows crept longer across the floor, drawn like daggers toward me. The air pressed against my chest—thick, metallic, suffocating. I slammed the phone onto the desk, the crack echoing too loud in the silence. My jaw throbbed from the pressure of clenched teeth. No one—no lawyer, no woman with steel stitched into her voice—had spoken to me like that in decades. The audacity of it left me raw. I had been cornered. Worse, I had been blackmailed.
Fury guided my hand as I stabbed at the keypad. Mira's number rang, the sound grating, and then her name filled the screen. I switched to speaker, my glare fixed across the room. My wife was exactly where I knew she would be, lounging in that chair like it was a throne, her glass of wine trembling faintly in her hand, though she raised an eyebrow at me as though nothing in the world could touch her.
"Mira," I barked into the phone, my fingers tightening around the receiver as if it could physically pull her back. "Get home.Now.I don't want another word of defiance. Ryder is about to file a police report and a restraining order against you. Do you understand what that will mean for you and for me before the election?"
There was a pause, the kind of silence that rattles a parent to their core. Then her voice, sharp and trembling with disbelief: "What? No... he wouldn't dare—"
"Hewill," I snapped, my patience fraying like wire under too much pressure. "Hospital records, photographs, video evidence. All of it. Harding, his lawyer, she's meticulous. If he goes public, it will destroy everything you've relied on. Your reputation, the family name, my career. This is bigger than you think."
"I... I don't care!" she hissed, venom lacing her words.
"Care or not,you have no choice," I said, my voice rising, sharp as steel. "You need to come home before this blows up. One more misstep, one more display of your... temper, and you won't just face legal consequences, you'll face a media storm you can't control. I won't let you drag the whole family down. Ryder isn't bluffing. Harding isn't bluffing. Do you hear me?"
Her breathing hitched, audibly panicked. "But... they can't! They can't—he—he's not allowed—"
"I don't care what you think is allowed," I cut her off, harder than I wanted. "Get in the car.Now.You come home quietly, or this becomes public, and there will be no one to protect you from the consequences. Your obsession, your actions, they've crossed every line. I am giving you one chance to stop the disaster before it even starts. Come home."
Her breath faltered audibly, jagged and sharp, like glass underfoot. "I'll be back in a sec."
"Mira—" My voice cracked against the air, but the line had already gone dead, leaving only the hollow hum of disconnection.
Across from me, my wife tilted her head, lips curved into a smirk that barely hid her amusement. "What's all this fuss?" she asked,I dragged a hand down my face, muscles taut with frustration. "Your daughter is violent. She's been abusing Ryder. He's about to file a police complaint, a restraining order. If this goes public, we could be finished—my career, the election, everything. You need to understand the stakes."
The room stilled for a heartbeat, my words hanging like smoke, fragile and urgent. Then came her sharp, incredulous laugh. It cut through the tension like a guillotine. She nearly spilled her drink as her body shook with mirth, eyes glittering with ridicule. "Abuse? Mira? Oh, don't be absurd. Ryder's a mountain of muscle, a trained athlete. You want me to believe our delicate little girl was tossing him around like a rag doll? Really, you must hear yourself, it's preposterous."
Her laughter crawled under my skin, a taunt sharper than any blade. My jaw tightened, fists clenching against the edge of the desk. "This isn't a joke," I growled, voice low and vibrating with fury. "She is unstable. She is dangerous. This isn't the first time. If we don't act, she'll do something reckless, something irreversible."
She leaned back, eyes narrowing, a patronizing smile curling her lips. "Dangerous? Please. Our daughter? She's fragile, sensitive... capable of breaking hearts, yes, but actual harm? That's your imagination running wild. Mira is my angel. She can do no wrong."
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my shaking hands, "You think this is funny?" I said, voice quieter now, but cold as ice beneath the surface. "You think I'm exaggerating. When Harding moves, when the police complaint and restraining order are filed, when the evidence, your daughter's own actions, meticulously documented, come to light, it won't be so entertaining. You'll see the chaos, the shame, the real possibility of ruin not just for me, but for all of us before anyone even blinks."
