Page 95 of What Goes Around

“Still hasn’t learned,” I murmured. “Eighteen years later and he’s repeating the same affair.”

He’d cheated on my mother with his secretary. And now it was a different secretary, but same script.

Men like him never thought consequences applied to them. They just assumed the world would keep absorbing their damage.

Amy watched me carefully.

“So,” she said eventually, lowering her voice. “What’s your plan?”

I took a slow sip of my coffee and smiled. The kind of smile that had no warmth at all.

“Make a scene,” I said. “And leave.”

I’d always planned to leave after the graduation party. I couldn’t stand the idea of staying a second longer.

Amy blinked. “That’s it?”

I shrugged. “For now.”

The conversation lingered for a while after that, but nothing important.

By the time I got home, it was late. I slipped my shoes off by the door, already counting the steps to the stairs.

I didn’t make it past the living room.

Marissa was waiting there, arms crossed, posture rigid.

“Ashley,” she said. “Where have you been?”

I stopped at the foot of the stairs.

“It’s late,” she continued. “And you’ve been sneaking out more and more these days.” Her eyes flicked over me. “And look at you, dressed up like that. Mind telling me who you were with? And—”

She stopped abruptly.

Her gaze dropped to the papers in her hand. I watched the shift happen, the flicker of emotion, the quick recalculation.

When she straightened again, her expression had already smoothed over, her tone softening as if she were rewinding herself. The good mother slipped back into place.

“Ashley… sweetheart,” she tried again, “I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I’m just… concerned. And actually, I was waiting because I need your signature on something.”

Chapter 30: I’m Good at Reading

There it was.

The real reason she had been waiting for me.

I turned fully toward her, letting her think I might actually listen. Inside, everything had already snapped into place.

I met her eyes.

“What kind of something?”

Marissa cleared her throat and lifted the stack of papers, tapping it lightly against her palm.

“It’s for your health insurance,” she said, voice softening into that artificial motherliness she’d been practicing lately. “Now that you’re eighteen, the policy needs updating so you stay covered under your father’s plan.”

I stepped closer to her.