End Game

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Aurora

I grew up in a world of glittering perfection. At least, that's what it looked like from the outside. My parents, wealthy beyond reason, lived in a mansion that felt more like a museum than a home—walls lined with priceless art, furniture so delicate it begged not to be touched. Even our Walnut Beach vacation house was cold, designed to impress Architectural Digest rather than comfort the family who lived in it. Sleek, sterile, soulless.

Thanksgiving there was never festive. My father disappeared to the golf course with William and his dad, Kip. My brother got high to tune everyone out. My mother drank gin like water, her eyes sharp on me the whole weekend, critiquing everything from my hair to the way I crossed my legs. From the outside, it looked enviable—lavish parties, private schools, designer clothes. But beneath the shine, it was suffocating.

My mother cared more about how I looked than who I was. "Sit up straight." "Smile more." "Don't slouch." My value was measured in posture, polish, perfection. My father, ruthless in business, treated my achievements the same way—transactional. Straight A's were expected. Trophies mandatory. Anything less than first place was failure. It wasn't about who I was or what I loved. It was about feeding the image of a flawless family. A facade. A parasite.

And no matter how much I gave, it was never enough.

I was never enough.

That's why I needed to get out.

Going home for Thanksgiving would mean suffocating all over again—trapped, hollow, anxious. My parents' narcissism left no room for me to exist on my own terms. I'd been shoved into a box of expectations since childhood: piano lessons I hated, a French tutor I despised, tennis matches that were fun until they became strategy for my father's networking. Galas full of brooding businessmen and brittle smiles made my stomach twist. None of it was mine. None of it was me.

So I made a choice. I didn't get on the plane.

I knew the fallout would come—my father's interrogation, my mother's lashing tongue, my brother's taunts. I expected that. What I hadn't expected was William, again.

We'd been circling this fight for weeks. He knew how I felt. He knew I didn't want to go back, that I'd begged him to spend the weekend with me here instead, to go see Greta Van Fleet. But he refused. He wanted tradition. He wanted Walnut Beach. He wanted the version of me who didn't exist anymore.

My phone buzzed, his name lighting up the screen. My stomach twisted. I hovered, torn between ignoring it and ripping the bandage off. I knew him. He'd keep calling. With a sigh, I swiped.

"I already told you, William," I said, sharper than I meant to, the bite of our last fight still fresh on my tongue. "You're not changing my mind. I'm not coming home for Thanksgiving."

Silence stretched, heavy. I could almost hear him searching for the right words, waiting for me to cave like I always used to. My grip on the phone tightened. I'd missed the flight. I wasn't booking another. This was a fight he couldn't win.

"You're making a big mistake," he said finally. His voice was soft, but disappointment threaded through it like a knife. "We've always spent Thanksgiving in Walnut Beach. It's tradition. Remember last year? Riding bikes on the boardwalk, ice cream on the beach? Where's that girl—the one who loved those things with me?"

My eyes flicked to the framed photo on my nightstand. The two of us last summer, smiling in front of the beach house. William stood tall, crisp white polo hugging his chest, the silver watch I'd given him glinting at his wrist. Effortlessly perfect. Sunglasses perched on his face like they belonged in an ad.