The cold night air still clung to Lottie's skin as she stepped further into the garden, the faint crunch of frost under her shoes the only sound. She lifted the phone to her ear, the screen glowing pale against her palm, its light casting soft silver across her fingertips.
"Mason?" Her voice came low, cautious, a single note of vulnerability tucked beneath carefully woven calm.
A pause crackled through the line before his voice answered, calm but edged, threading through the dark like the draw of a bowstring pulled too tight. "Lottie."
Her name in his mouth was at once a question and a verdict, wrapping around her ribs, slipping beneath the thin fabric of her resolve. She exhaled softly, the breath feathering out in a silvered curl, her free hand brushing lightly over the frost-dusted railing beside her as if to ground herself.
"I didn't expect you to call." She tried for lightness, the familiar edge of teasing, but it scraped raw against her throat, leaving the words thin, brittle.
"I didn't expect to," Mason murmured, the faintest flicker of humor there, muted and worn at the edges. "But then, I didn't expect half the family to be in damage control tonight."
Lottie's jaw tightened, her gaze drifting to the house—the light bleeding from the ballroom windows, silhouettes flitting like restless ghosts across gilt-edged curtains. She could almost hear the echo of brittle laughter, the way glasses clinked just a touch too sharply. "You heard."
A breath, sharp and measured, slid down the line. "The recording made it overseas in under an hour. Impressive." Mason's voice softened just slightly, like leather pulled over steel. "Was it you?"
For a moment, silence bloomed between them, thick as the frost-laden air curling through the hedges. Lottie inhaled slowly, the cold biting down her throat, filling her chest with a sharp ache before she exhaled, a thread of mist unraveling into the night.
"I don't think you called to ask questions you already know the answer to."
A soft huff of laughter stirred through the phone, a low ripple that pressed against her ear. "Touché."
Inside, laughter rose—a brittle, paper-thin wave that sliced sharp into the hush of the garden. Lottie's shoulders stiffened, the sound scraping across her skin like the edge of broken glass. She didn't let it into her voice, not yet.
"Father's not happy," Mason said quietly. "Mother's been on the phone half the night, and Evelyn's…" His voice faltered, the word trailing into shadow. "…Evelyn's rattled."
Lottie closed her eyes briefly, the ache blooming behind her ribs an old, familiar bruise. She pressed her fingertips lightly to the cold stone of the balustrade, anchoring herself there. "She'll recover."
"Will she?" Mason's voice sharpened, slipping past the soft veneer, cutting clean. "Or did you finally push her past the point of recovery?"
Her breath hitched, sharp and thin, a flicker of pain stirring low in her throat. She swallowed it down, forced her voice smooth. "Why are you really calling, Mason?"
On the other end, a pause stretched, delicate and fraying. She imagined him there—pacing perhaps, fingers raking through his hair, jaw clenched, the familiar furrow pinching between his brows. She knew his silences as well as his words.
"I've been watching," Mason murmured, quieter now, like a confession slipping loose in the dark. "Reading between the lines. The fall on the rooftop. The shifts in Father's attention. The cracks in Evelyn's perfect image. And now this." A breath, slow and careful. "Tell me what I'm missing, Lottie."
The words curled under her skin, a slow burn winding through bone and breath. Her fingers tightened faintly against the railing, nails biting into the chilled stone, the sting sharp, grounding. "You're not missing anything," she whispered. "You're just… catching up."
A brittle laugh threaded through the phone, too soft to wound, too sharp to soothe. "You always were faster on the board."
A pause settled, long and thin, strung between them like a wire pulled tight. For a heartbeat, only the hush of wind stirred between their breaths, lifting the edges of Lottie's dress, brushing her hair across her cheek in a cold, soft whisper.
"I saw the reports," Mason murmured, voice low, threading into the hush like the shift of a blade drawn slow from its sheath. "The rooftop incident—Evelyn's story didn't sit right. Neither did yours."
Lottie's throat worked, her teeth pressing faintly into her lower lip. The taste of copper ghosted at the edge of her tongue, a memory more than a wound. "I don't want to pull you into this, Mason."
"Too late."
The quiet snap of his voice slipped beneath her skin, a blade she hadn't braced for.
"I'm not asking for you to choose," she said, the words scraping out raw, torn at the edges. "I just… need you to stand back."
"And watch?" Mason's voice tightened, the edge unmistakable now. "Watch as you tear the house down from the inside?"
Lottie's laugh broke sharp, startling even herself, a breathless sound skimming the surface of a shiver. "It was already rotting, Mason. I'm just the only one who stopped pretending not to smell it."
A soft exhale ghosted through the line, a sound weighted with old ache, old affection, old cracks worn thin.
Inside the house, a glass shattered—sharp, ringing, a note struck clean through the night. Lottie's head turned instinctively, her breath catching as the sound echoed through the stone and frost, the cold brushing her cheek like the house itself exhaling against her skin.
"Lottie." Mason's voice, gentler now, like hands brushing over old bruises. "Don't let this eat you alive."
Her chest tightened, breath pulling shallow. Her free hand curled into the fabric at her side, fingers fisting tight against silk. "I'm fine," she lied.
A soft scoff, almost a laugh. "You always were a terrible liar."
A faint, wry smile ghosted across her mouth, twisting at the corners, an old ache flickering in the hollow of her chest. "Maybe," she murmured. "But I'm still standing."
"Not all victories are worth the price."
Her eyes fluttered shut. "Tell me that when you're home."
Silence folded in—soft, tense, the kind of silence that said everything words couldn't. She felt it seep through the line, the weight of it brushing through her bones.
Finally, Mason's voice drifted through, quieter than before, laced with something that caught faintly in his throat. "Be careful."
A sharp, soft breath slid through her teeth, the cold cutting sweet at the back of her throat. "Always."
The call ended with a faint click, the cold sliding in where Mason's voice had been, slipping under her skin. For a long moment, Lottie stood still, the garden folding around her in hush and frost, her breath silvering the dark in thin, curling threads.
Inside, light fractured as Evelyn moved past the window—a flash of white dress, taut shoulders, Amy trailing behind, her hands fluttering uselessly at her sides like pale moths trapped against glass.
Lottie's fingers tightened around the phone, the cold biting into her skin, her pulse a sharp, clean drumbeat beneath her ribs.
A soft vibration buzzed against her palm.
Leo:He's watching from afar.
A laugh slipped from her lips, low and breathless, the sound a sharp edge against the quiet. The world spun sharp around her, every line drawn bright, every shadow stretched thin and trembling.
Across the garden, Evelyn's silhouette paused at the window. For a moment, their eyes caught—Evelyn's, a dark glint in the glass; Lottie's, steady, bright, a quiet blaze in the cold. Lottie tilted her head, the faintest smile curving her lips, a breath caught soft between her teeth.
Inside, Evelyn's mouth tightened, a flicker of something breaking sharp across her face—frustration, fury, something raw edged in fear. She turned sharply, shoulders snapping stiff, hands clenching at her sides, the fabric of her dress whispering a sharp hiss as she vanished from view.
Lottie exhaled, slow and deliberate, the cold sweet on her tongue, the air biting soft at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers brushed absently against the screen, Mason's last words still echoing in the spaces between each beat of her heart.
Don't let this eat you alive.
A shiver rippled down her spine, half from the cold, half from the sharp, clean thrill that coiled sweet in her belly.
Her phone buzzed once more.
Leo:Stay sharp.
Her mouth curved, a small, sure twist, the cold creeping up her ankles, the hush of the garden folding close around her. Above, the stars burned cold and bright, unblinking, distant, their light spilling silver across her upturned face.
From the house, the faint scrape of footsteps drifted—quick, sharp, the soft murmur of Evelyn's voice stretched thin, taut, barely holding shape.
Lottie drew in a breath, deep and slow, the frost slipping between her teeth, threading through her chest like glass.
She slipped the phone into her pocket, the weight of it cool against her thigh, turned toward the house, and walked, the frost crackling softly beneath each step, the night wrapping around her like a held breath, waiting.