Page 183 of A Million To Fall

“Tell me!” I demand, my eyes moving between Mr. Longfellow and Archer, anger boiling in my chest. “Why do you keep saying that about Boston? Why did you shoot him? I know damn well it wasn’t self-defense.”

“Not everything needs to be shared, Skye. Some things are handled internally,” Mr. Longfellow says so matter-of-factly it only infuriates me more. Not only is he managing the “situation,” he’s also managing me.

“I deserve to know.” The words come out sharper than I expect. “This affects me, too. My family. This happened at my mom’s apartments.”

Mr. Longfellow doesn’t so much as blink. “That doesn’t make you part of it, Ms. Monroe.”

I blink, recoiling.

Ms. Monroe.

Not Skye. Not future daughter-in-law. Not family.

Just Ms. Monroe.

Suddenly, I understand.

I spent years learning their rules and contorting myself into acceptable shapes, convinced that if I was agreeable enough, polished enough, accommodating enough, I could earn a place in this house. But belonging was always conditional—be useful, be uncomplicated, play your part.

I should’ve known that the moment I stopped performing, the invitation would be revoked. It became clear the second Mr. Longfellow agreed to help Boston’s mom in exchange for my silence. For staying with Archer.

For staying away from Boston.

The strangest thing happens.

I’m not devastated by being cast aside.

Quite the opposite.

Relief blooms in my chest.

Because if I was never truly theirs to lose, then I don’t have to keep earning a place at their table.

I am no longer required to play their game.

And the truth is, I don’t need answers.

I already know what happened. I saw it with my own eyes. Boston in the snow, defenseless, already bleeding when Archer pulled the trigger. The only thing still missing is the why.

Maybe I thought I’d find that here, but the real reason I came is that I already knew what had to happen next.

I’ve known for a long time. Years, maybe. Back in high school. Last summer at AJ’s. In that New York hotel room. In Boston’s apartment—his bed.

I knew.

I’m done.

Been done.

I slide the ring off my finger.

And for the first time in a long time, I breathe.

This ring has felt like a weight for months. A reminder of all the ways I’ve been silent. All the ways I’ve let someone else tell my story.

Not anymore.

I walk over to Archer. He and his dad stare at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. And maybe I have.