“YOU BROUGHT THIS ON YOURSELF, EMILY,” My Mother Said After Watching My Father Beat Me at Thanksgiving Dinner, Never Realizing Her Six Words Would Be the Last She Ever Got to Say to the Daughter Who Kept Their Family Afloat. / Chapter 125 / 161

Chapter 125 - Fractured Reflections

I looked at Sarah’s face. I saw the bridge of my own nose, the slight asymmetry of my lower lip, the precise arch of my brow. But behind her eyes, there was nothing. No grief for the childhood she never had, no horror at the monster sitting at the head of the table. Sarah was a vessel carved out of Eleanor’s will, hollowed out until only obedience remained.

"You think you’re the chosen one," I said, lowering my pistol just an inch, letting my voice drop to a low, conversational hum that I knew would pull her focus. "You think because she kept you safe in the permafrost, fed you from silver trays, and dressed you in tailored suits, you’re the daughter she actually wanted."

Sarah's hand didn't waver on the antique revolver. "I am the preservation of the lineage. You were the shield. Shields are discarded when the battle ends."

"Shields get dented," I whispered, stepping forward until the muzzle of her revolver was less than three feet from my chest. "Shields get dragged through the dirt. But shields learn how steel bends. They learn how to crack bone when the blow lands."

I locked eyes with her, letting her see the jagged scar cutting through my right eyebrow—the mark left by Arthur's signet ring when he threw me into the corner of the dining room sideboard on Thanksgiving night.

"Did she ever touch you, Sarah?" I asked, my voice slicing through the cold air. "Did she ever put her arms around you when you were burning with fever? Did she ever look at you without calculating the net asset value of your organs? Look at her. Look at the woman sitting at the head of that table."

Sarah’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second—a micro-stutter in her calm programming. Her gaze darted toward Eleanor, whose jaw instantly tightened.

"Sarah," Eleanor commanded, her voice dropping like an iron portcullis. "Do not engage in dialectics with an asset scheduled for termination. Complete the protocol."

"She doesn't see a daughter," I drove the wedge deeper, stepping another inch closer, ignoring the cold barrel pointing at my chest. "She sees a duplicate key. If Clara survives, you become obsolete tomorrow, Sarah. Just like I became obsolete the moment I opened Vault 404. Ask her what’s on page forty-eight of the black dossier."

Sarah didn't look down at the dossier on the tray, but her fingers tightened on the revolver. "The dossier contains the asset transfer to the Geneva repository."

"No," Vance called out from behind me, his tactical radio suddenly crackling as he keyed a bypass frequency into his gauntlet console. "Page forty-eight is an organ match ledger, you idiot. The child wasn't grown to be an heir. She's a walking tissue match for Eleanor’s failing renal system. That's why your mother set this meeting thirty miles beneath the shelf—not to negotiate, but to harvest."

The air in the replica dining room froze completely.

Eleanor didn't deny it. She slowly picked up her crystal glass, took another measured sip of scotch, and looked at me with pure, unadulterated contempt.