Light pooled silently across the floor, filtered through the windowpane like it was not sure it belonged. Maisie sat still in the corner seat, legs tucked beneath her, the broken collar resting in her lap. Her thumb moved absently across the fractured seam, again, feeling the ridged edge where it had snapped clean. The metal was cold, even now. A reminder. A question. A presence she couldn't shake.
A knock came, harsh and hesitant. Then the door opened anyway. Dash stepped inside without waiting, his frame backlit by the hallway gloom. His shirt was wrinkled, half-tucked, and his eyes were bloodshot, darkened by the weight of a night with no sleep.
He didn't wait to be asked in. Dash pushed the door open with the flat of his palm and stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room like he expected something to be different. His clothes were the same as yesterday, jacket creased, collar loose, faint ash still clinging to the cuffs. He looked like someone who had run out of adrenaline and was now running on memory alone. His gaze found hers briefly, then dropped to the floor, like looking at her too long might crack something open in him that hadn't been sealed shut yet.
The edge of the previous day, Harry's death, the panic, the police, had dulled into something worse: grief that no longer came with adrenaline. Now it was just there, solemn and bitter, sticking to his every breath. He paused when he saw it, eyes flicking to the object in her lap, then quickly away, as if he couldn't bear to name it yet.
Maisie didn't speak. She sat once again on the cushioned bench beneath the window, the broken collar resting in her lap, thumb gliding absentmindedly over the jagged seam. She had wandered earlier through the east wing, past the greenhouse, but always ended up back here, drawn like a tide to the quiet.
The room smelled faintly of old perfume and dust, a familiar weight pressing in as sunlight pooled across the floor. She didn't need to ask why Dash had come. There were only a few truths left between them now, and none of them could be spoken lightly.
Maisie didn't look up right away. Her thumb was still moving over the jagged seam of the collar, slow and rhythmic, like it grounded her. Dash's presence filled the room with a nervous energy, stretched and whizzing, but neither of them spoke.
Finally, she broke the silence, voice flat. "You didn't have to barge in."
Dash raised an eyebrow. "You weren't answering."
"I didn't want to talk."
"Well, too bad," he muttered. "We don't have the luxury of silence anymore."
Maisie's gaze lifted sharply. "You mean you don't. You're the one pretending any of this can still be normal."
He scoffed, jaw tightening. "I'm not pretending. I'm surviving."
The words hit her hard and fast. Maisie stood, the collar still clutched in one hand. "Surviving? Is that what this is to you? Patch the estate back together, lie to the authorities, pretend Dad didn't..." Her voice caught. "Didn't deserve what he got?"
"Don't," Dash growled, stepping closer. "Don't twist it. You think I don't know what he did? You think I didn't see it too?"
Maisie's expression turned brittle. "You were loyal to him. Even after what he did."
Dash's face darkened. "Don't put that on me," he snapped. "I hated what he became. But he was still my father. That doesn't just… shut off."
Dash turned from her, jaw tight, pacing the length of the room with stiff, uneven strides. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles gone pale. "I know what he did, Maisie," he said, now lower, and his voice splintering. "I know he lied. Manipulated. Used people like chess pieces."
He dragged a hand through his hair, stopping near the edge of her desk. His shoulders hunched like the guilt had finally caught up to him. "But he also raised us. When I had night terrors as a kid, he was the one who sat on the edge of my bed. He read to me. He stayed. I don't know if it was love or control or both, but he was there."
Maisie didn't interrupt. Her grip on the collar had loosened, her fingers trembling slightly.
Dash exhaled, the sound bare. "He made monsters out of all of us. You're not wrong. But I wasn't ready to lose him like that. Not like... that."
Maisie moved then, silent but certain. She stepped to the small table between them and, with deliberate care, placed the broken collar down in the center. The sound of the collar hitting the wood cut through the silence like a crack of thunder in a church.
Dash stared at it.
His pacing stopped.
He lowered himself into the nearest chair like someone had cut the strings holding him upright. The fury drained from his face, replaced by a weight that made him seem years older, calmer, but worn.
Dash's voice was rough when he finally spoke. "He was always our servant, quiet, obedient. We never stopped to see what that meant for him, or who he was beneath it all. Now… we're scared of what he's become."
Maisie's gaze dropped to the broken collar. "Maybe we should be," she said softly. "Or maybe it's time to start listening."
The silence between them thickened, fragile but charged.
Then Maisie's phone buzzed on the nightstand.
She picked it up carefully. One message. No sender ID. Just three words glowing on the screen:
He looked back.