Shane

When I end the call, I just stand there, staring at the screen of my phone, like if I wait long enough, her voice might come back to fill the silence.

I hate that I had to hang up first. Hate that I’m here, surrounded by polished floors and polished liars, while she’s back in her apartment alone, trying to pretend she’s not breaking too, just like I am.

A dull ache pounds behind my ribs. Grief, guilt, fury—all of it twisting so tight it feels like it might crack me open. Because I know what’s coming for her. The headlines. The photos. The perfect fucking lie we’re about to feed the world. 

And she’ll have to see it all. She’ll have to endure it. There’s no way around it, but at least for now, I know she’ll be safe from the gossip. And when I’m finally with her again, we’ll sit together, go through everything they’re saying. I’ll hold her hand, answer her questions, and remind her that no matter what the world thinks, my heart only belongs to her. 

I press my thumb to the phone screen, over my favorite picture of her, like I can somehow reach through and touch her. It was taken in front of our little tree, right after I gave her the Andromeda ornament. She’s always beautiful, but that night, even more so. 

Her rosy cheeks. That rare, uninhibited smile she only ever shows me. The glassy look in her eyes as she stared at the tree in awe. 

The memory makes me exhale, shaky and slow. The love and grief inside me fuse together into a cocktail of anger and pain that damn near chokes me. 

I’m so sorry, pretty girl.

I’m so goddamn sorry.

But then her words echo in my mind, soft and certain, wrapping around every fractured piece of me: Don’t let them break you, Shane.

My throat closes. 

And then my own voice, raw and quiet, answers her memory: They can’t, anyway. I’m not theirs to break. I’m yours, Becca.

God, I needed that. To hear her voice. More than air. More than my next breath.

The grief is still here. So is the rage and the ache so deep it feels like it’s burrowed into my bones. But under all of it, cutting through the storm like a single bolt of clarity, is her. The only real thing I have left in this life of smoke and mirrors.

I draw in a slow breath and let it fill every corner of me, chanting the words over and over, cementing them as truth:

I’m not theirs to break.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

By the time I turn toward the mirrored wall across the room, I’ve already buried the wreckage. I’ve swallowed the storm whole and forced it down deep, where no one else can find it.  

My spine straightens. My jaw locks in place—serious, but relaxed. And my hands, which seconds ago were trembling, are now still. Steady. Confident.

I look like a Montgomery.

I move like a Montgomery.

But inside, I’m Perseus.

Because no matter what my parents think they’re seeing tonight, this isn’t obedience. I’m not walking into this night to get engaged to Amanda Kline. I’m walking in to put an end to their games, to face the monster, to bring it to its knees. 

This is war. 

And tonight marks the beginning of their end. 

I won’t be their pawn anymore. 

My life. My choices. From this point forward, they’ll all belong to me. And every path before me leads straight to the woman I love. My Becca. My north star.

A knock sounds before the door swings open… apparently no invitation needed. My mother enters in a flurry of perfume, pearls, and that calculating smile she saves for occasions she’s particularly proud of. Her entourage trails in behind her like well-trained lap dogs—a photographer, a videographer, one of her PR assistants clutching a clipboard and whispering into a tiny two-way radio. 

Mother beams like she’s just walked onto the set of her very own movie—starring her.

“There’s my handsome boy,” she says, voice bright and too sweet to be real. As she crosses the room to me, the camera flashes follow, the photographer keeping in step at her side. 

“Tilt your chin up—no, a little more.” She smiles, adjusting me like a mannequin while her assistant stands in the distance, scribbling notes. “Posture matters,” she whispers, so only I can hear.

Her hands travel over me, tugging my jacket straight, smoothing down the lines of my shoulders, fussing with the knot of my tie like I’m seven years old and about to be presented at some aristocratic debut.

I let her. 

Because that’s the role.

The camera keeps flashing while the videographer moves around us, recording the moment so they can replay it later on every carefully chosen outlet—after it’s been edited to perfection, of course.

Catherine Montgomery: perfect, doting mother.

Shane Montgomery: heir and perfect son.

The Montgomerys: a pristine vision of class and family legacy.

The narrative she wants the world to see. 

She must think they’ve gotten enough, because she finally waves them out with a practiced flick of her hand, but not before directing them to capture a few more “candid” shots of me looking natural:

Me gazing out the window.

Me standing by the fireplace. 

Me looking thoughtfully at the family portrait hanging over the mantle—Mother’s words verbatim.

It’s a fucking joke.

But I oblige.

Just as she expects.

“Tonight’s important, Shane,” she reminds me, once they’re gone, as if I could ever forget. “We only get one shot at this. And it has to be perfect. Understated but elegant. Romantic, but poised. You’re not just proposing, Shane. You’re giving the world a love story they’ll want to believe in.”

I don’t answer. I just give her a slight nod, doing my damndest not to let the mask drop. The roll of her eyes tells me she’s noticed the tension in my jaw anyway, though thankfully, she lets it go. Instead, she leans in close, eyes glittering like the chandeliers in the ballroom.

“And don’t forget the kiss. It needs to feel magical. Remember the story that’s being told. You’ve been in love since you were kids, remember? This is the culmination of a decade-long romance. It’s so romantic. Everything women dream of.”

Her hands leave my chest. She brushes invisible lint off my shoulder and gives a final, satisfied smile. “The guests will start arriving soon. You’ve got ten minutes. And remember, when you see her, smile like she’s your world. The cameras will be watching.”

Then she’s gone, her heels clicking across the marble like a ticking countdown clock.

I exhale through my nose and reach up to slightly loosen my tie and unbutton the top of my collar. Just one. Just enough to feel like I’ve taken something back. The smallest act of rebellion on a day I have no control.

She’ll hate it the moment she sees it. It’ll stain every photo, leave a flaw she’ll never be able to ignore when she looks back at the pictures of this day. 

Which is exactly why I leave it that way. 

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