CHAPTER 175: EDWARD STERLING

"And this?" Edward looked at the car like they were evidence in a murder trial. "A Mercedes, Linda? Really?" His laugh was the kind that reminded you why some kids deserved swirlies in high school.

"What are you doing for money these days? Finally putting that body to work? "Spreading your legs for the right doctors, perhaps? Following in your adopted son’s mother’s footsteps?"

Sarah’s grip on my hand changed from "please don’t" to "if you move, I’ll break your wrist." Her nails dug in so hard she could’ve signed her name in my skin.

For someone barely over a hundred pounds, she had a grip like a bear trap. My blood was literally on her hands.

"Don’t," she whispered. "He wants you to hit him." He just called my mother a whore. In her own living room. In front of her children. This isn’t a test of self-control. This is a goddamn Olympic qualifier.

"Get out," Mom said. But her voice wasn’t loud—it was surgical. That terrifying calm nurses use when you’re bleeding out and they’re deciding if you’re worth the transfusion.

The room went silent. Not regular silent. The horror-movie kind, where you just know someone’s about to get axed by a dude in a mask.

Mom’s face flickered—shock, hurt, then something new. Something dangerous.

"Get out," she said again quietly.

"I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking—"

Breathe. Think. Don’t give him the satisfaction of watching me go full Discovery Channel in the living room.

"I said that’s enough, Mr. Sterling." Dead quiet now. ICU quiet. The kind of quiet that makes even the Grim Reaper check his schedule before knocking.

"Not until we discuss what you’re going to do about him." He jabbed a finger at me again, like I was toxic waste. "He’s violent and unstable, just like his whore mother. It’s not too late to send him away, Linda. Think of your real children."

Real children. Because apparently adoption is a rental agreement in his twisted Monopoly board version of family. "All three of my children are real," Mom said, her voice steady as stone. "And all three are staying exactly where they are."

"Then you’re as delusional as he is." He shook his head, theatrically—like some bad soap actor practicing for his Emmy reel. "When he inevitably snaps and hurts someone else—maybe one of your daughters—remember this conversation."

"The only one talking about hurting my sisters is you," I said flatly, Sarah’s nails still crucifying my hand. "Projection’s a hell of a drug."

His face twisted with real hatred. Not performance this time. The genuine, veins-in-the-forehead, frothing-at-the-mouth kind.

"You’re nothing but the bastard son of a dead whore, living in a decent woman’s home out of charity. Your very existence is an insult to proper families."

Ouch. He broke out the ’dead mom’ combo. Ten points for originality.

"Edward." Mom’s voice could’ve frozen lava. "Leave. Now. Or I call the police and explain how you forced your way into my home with hired muscle to threaten my minor child."

"This isn’t over," he promised, but the retreat had already started. His bodyguard opened the door like a chauffeur ushering a drunk celebrity into rehab. "When that boy shows his true nature—and he will—I’ll make sure everyone knows you could have prevented it."

"GET. OUT."

Edward actually stepped back. Even Discount-Jason-Statham in the corner looked nervous.

"This isn’t over." Edward jabbed a finger at me like I was anthrax in a gift bag. "That boy is dangerous. Mentally unstable. Violence runs in his blood—"

Blood. Oh, here we go. Cue the dramatic villain monologue. I swear this guy practiced in front of a mirror with a scotch glass in hand.

"His blood?" Mom stood up, all five-foot-four of her suddenly seven feet tall. "You mean the blood of the woman who died giving birth to the son you couldn’t give me? The son who can get a full scholarship to MIT? The son who’s been taking care of this family while you were playing house with your twenty-two-year-old wife?"

Ouch. Fatality. Somebody call Mortal Kombat. He’s not walking that one off.

Edward’s face went red, then purple, then into that rare shade of rage middle-aged men get when women stop buying their bullshit.

"Mark my words, Linda. When he snaps—and he will snap—it’ll be on you."

Guy sounds like a true crime podcast narrator begging for foreshadowing rights.

He stormed out, his bodyguards trailing behind like confused puppy. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall—pictures Edward wasn’t in, had never been in, and sure as hell never would be in.

The silence after felt like the echo of a slap.

"Well," I said, finally prying my mangled hand free of Sarah’s grip. "That was enlightening. We should definitely do this more often."

"Peter." Mom’s warning tone carried all the weight of a gavel.

"What? I didn’t touch him. Sarah made sure of that." I flexed my fingers like a boxer between rounds. "Jesus, sis, were you training with the CIA? What is this grip?"

Sarah’s cheeks were pale, but her chin lifted. "Wrestling camp. Coach said I had natural talent for submissions."

Fantastic. My sister is one armbar away from being Ronda Rousey. We’re all becoming weapons around here—me the blunt instrument, Sarah the precision chokehold, Mom the scalpel.

Emma’s probably going to invent poison next week just to keep the theme alive.

Speaking of... Emma crept halfway down the stairs, cautious as a cat.

"Is he gone?"

"Yeah, baby," Mom said, suddenly looking like someone had pulled the plug on her energy reserves. "He’s gone."

But I knew better. Men like Edward Sterling don’t "go." They regroup. They plot. They lawyer up. They move their chess pieces while pretending it’s checkers.

Mom sat back down, shaking. Emma hugged her from one side, Sarah from the other. Me? I just sat there, burning like acid.

"I’m sorry," I finally said.

"For what?" Mom looked at me with fierce pride. "For defending your sister? For succeeding despite that man’s or a father figure absence? For being exactly the son, I prayed for?"

She stood up and kissed my forehead, stood, and went to her room. Twenty minutes later, we heard her crying. But we knew better than to intrude. Some battles you fight with fists, some you fight with silence. And some? You fight alone.

Edward Sterling. Congratulations. You just made the list. Right under Holloway, right above every other rich prick who thinks he can break my family. Spoiler: this doesn’t end the way you want it to.