CHAPTER 143

**ZION**

My head is spinning. My pulse is a violent hammer in my chest.

"The fuck are you talking about?" 

My voice is sharp and raw, my hands curling into fists at my sides as I glare at Mom.

She exhales sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. 

"Exactly what I said, Zion. Winter didn’t tell me anything about Thomas."

"Bullshit." I shake my head, my entire body vibrating with anger and disbelief. 

"You’re covering for her," I spit, my chest heaving, my pulse a relentless war drum, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but the fury clawing its way up my throat.

"That’s it, isn’t it? Poor little Winter. Your husband’s daughter—the helpless, fragile girl being ‘tormented’ by me." My voice drips with venom, my eyes burning into hers. 

"So you decided to step in. To protect her. To lie for her."

"Zion .."

I jab a finger at her, my entire body trembling with the force of everything I’ve been holding in, everything threatening to break free.

"You—" My breath is ragged, my chest rising and falling too fast, too uneven. I take a step closer, voice teetering on the edge of control. 

"You can’t lie for her. Not this time."

My words are sharp, cutting through the thick air between us like a blade. 

"Because I heard you! You said it yourself—‘I found out from a twelve-year-old.’ My voice rises, cracking under the weight of it. 

"So don’t you dare fucking lie to me now?"

Her eyes flash, her jaw tightening as she takes a step forward, closing the space between us.

"Watch your tone, Zion." Her voice is low and cold—a warning wrapped in steel.

My breath heaves, my fists clenching at my sides, but she doesn’t back down.

"You might be angry, but you do not get to stand here and throw accusations at me like a damn child throwing a tantrum." Her eyes burn into mine, sharp enough to cut. 

"And you sure as hell don’t get to speak to me like that."

"A tantrum?" My voice drips with bitterness as I take a step back, my hands curling into fists.

"That’s what you think this is? Me asking for the fucking truth? Me trying to make sense of how everything fell apart?!" I scoff, my chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

I stab a finger in her direction, my voice shaking with fury. "You said it, Mom. I heard you. Every damn word." I take a step closer, my breath ragged, each syllable sharp as a blade. "You. Said. It. Was. A. Twelve. Year. Old." My chest heaves. "So don’t stand there and act like I’m the one twisting the truth."

My pulse is a relentless drumbeat in my ears, my body vibrating with anger, with something dangerously close to desperation. 

"You’re spinning this, twisting it, trying to make me believe she didn’t say anything," I grit out, 

"But I know what I heard. I know what you said."

My breath shudders as I take a step closer, desperation bleeding into my fury. 

"Why?" My voice is raw, edged with something dangerously close to betrayal. 

"Why are you protecting her?"

Mom’s jaw tightens "I am not protecting her."

"Bullshit!" The word explodes from me, my control snapping. 

"You’re lying to my face!" I step closer, my heart pounding against my ribs. 

"Why won’t you just admit it? That she told you? That she ruined everything?"

Mom exhales sharply, 

"Because that’s not what happened, Zion."

"No. Mom, you don’t get to rewrite history. You don’t get to stand there and act like I’m crazy." I point at her again, my hands trembling. 

"I remember every fucking second of that day. I remember how she looked at me, how she swore she’d keep her mouth shut. And I remember you—screaming, throwing him out, tearing everything apart. So stop fucking lying!'"

But before I can say anything else—SMACK.

The sharp crack of her palm against my face stuns me into silence.

"Watch your mouth, Zion." Mom’s voice is cold, and the landlady's hand is shaking as she lowers it. 

"I am still your mother."

I blink, my cheek stinging, my mind reeling. The slap wasn’t hard, not really, but it looked like a warning. A reminder.

I shake my head, gripping my hair, my breathing ragged. 

"No. You don’t get to shut me up." I meet her eyes, my own burning. 

"You don’t get to slap me like I’m some kid throwing a tantrum. Not after everything you’ve kept from me."

She exhales sharply, her jaw tightening. "I didn’t keep anything from you."

"Bullshit." My voice is raw, trembling. 

Her expression wavers, just for a second. A flicker of something—guilt, hesitation—flashes across her face.

"You want the truth?" Her voice is quieter now, but there’s a weight behind it, something heavy, something painful.

I brace myself.

She stands before me, her expression unreadable, her hands curled into fists at her sides. 

"You think Winter betrayed you?" she asks, her voice low. 

"You think she ruined everything?"

"She did."

"No, Zion. She didn’t."

I scoff the bitter taste of rage thick on my tongue. 

"Then explain how you found out," I snap. 

"If she didn’t tell you, then who the fuck did?"

She meets my gaze, steady and unwavering. 

"I found out because I came home early that day."

The air shifts, the weight of her words pressing down on my chest like a vice.

Mom takes a slow step forward. 

"The meeting was brief, so I got home earlier than expected. I saw Winter dragging you into a corner, and I followed, thinking I’d surprise both of you. I thought we’d have a fun afternoon making preparations for my birthday." She lets out a humourless laugh. 

"But then I heard her telling you what she saw."

A sharp chill slams through me.

"I froze," she continues, her voice steady, but there’s something in her eyes—something dark, something old. 

"I hid and listened to everything. I heard you denying it. I heard her insisting. And I heard you convince her otherwise. You made her promise to keep quiet. And she did, Zion. She kept that promise."

The room tilts. My breath is jagged and ven.

"She only told you what she saw," mom says, 

"but she never told me."

I shake my head, gripping the back of my neck as if that might hold me together. 

"No, that’s not—"

"Yes, it is," she cuts me off. 

"And do you know what I did after? I went to Winter’s house. I needed to know who the woman was. I couldn’t have Thomas’s mistress walking around my house like she belonged there. So I confronted her."

She steps closer, her eyes burning into mine.

"And do you know what she said?" Mom’s lips curl into something bitter. 

"She said she had no idea what I was talking about. She even asked me, ‘What woman?’"

The words slam into me like a wrecking ball, tearing through my chest.

"She was one hell of an actress, I’ll give her that," she continues. 

"But she didn’t budge. She kept her side of the promise."

This can’t be true.

Winter—she had to be the one.

She had to be.

Because if she wasn’t—

"You need someone to blame?" Mom’s voice is quiet—too quiet—but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it, a warning laced with something I can’t quite name.

"Blame me."

My fists curl so tight that my nails bite into my palms, the sharp sting barely registering over the storm raging inside me.

I swallow hard, my throat raw, my voice barely above a whisper—but the words still land like a blade between us. 

"If you hadn’t thrown Dad out that night… he’d still be here."

Mom goes completely still.

And then—

Her expression hardens, and she takes a step forward, fire flashing in her eyes. 

"Don’t you dare put that on me," she seethes, her voice like acid, low and simmering.

"Why not?" I fire back, my voice shaking with anger. 

"You didn’t even hesitate, did you?" My voice is sharp, laced with bitterness. 

"You didn’t stop to think—not for a second. You didn’t give him a chance. You just threw him out like he meant nothing."

Her breath shudders, but her hands curl into fists at her sides. 

"I threw him out because he was a liar. A cheater. A man who looked me in the eye every damn day and pretended to love me while sneaking around behind my back." 

She steps even closer, voice razor-sharp. 

"And you—" her finger jabs toward my chest, 

"—are so desperate to rewrite history that you're willing to paint everyone else as the villain just so you don’t have to face the truth."

"The truth?" A humourless laugh rips out of me, bitter and raw. 

"The truth is, if you had just waited—if you had just fucking calmed down—he wouldn’t have been on that road that night." My throat tightens, my voice cracking. 

"You didn’t even give him a chance."

Mom’s nostrils flare, her jaw clenching so tight I think her teeth might crack. 

"A chance?" Her voice is deadly soft, shaking with restrained fury. 

"You think I owed him a chance? After years of lies? After—" 

She cuts herself off, exhaling sharply like she’s physically holding herself together.

I shake my head, stepping back like I can put space between myself and the boiling rage, the suffocating weight of this conversation. 

"You should have talked to him." My voice is hoarse, but the words feel like they've been clawing their way up my throat for years.

"You should have—"

"Should have what?" she cuts me off, her voice sharp, edged with something deeper—something bitter. 

"Given him a chance to spin another lie? To stand in front of me and pretend like I didn’t already know exactly who he was?"

The words punch through me, but I refuse to let them sink in.

Because if I do, if I let myself believe her—

Then I have to let go of the version of my father I’ve been clinging to for so long.

And I can’t.

I won’t.

I shake my head again, a muscle jumping in my jaw. 

"I don’t believe you." The words are barely audible, but I know she hears them.

I force myself to meet her gaze, my face throbbing, my fists clenched so tight my nails bite into my palms.

Mom exhales sharply, then turns away. She storms toward her closet, yanking open the door so hard it rattles. 

"Fine," she bites out, her eyes blazing. 

"You don’t believe me? Then let me show you."

Before I can react, she grabs my arm, her grip tight, unyielding. 

"Come with me."

She all but drags me down the hall, her steps quick, furious, until we reach her bedroom. She shoves the door open, pulling me inside before letting go of my arm.

Without a word, she strides to the cupboard, yanking the door open with a force that rattles the hinges. 

Her hands move with a sharp, practised urgency as she reaches inside. A second later, she pulls out an old, worn folder and slams it against my chest.

The impact jolts through me, but it’s nothing compared to the storm in her eyes.

"Open it," she demands. 

"Read every damn page. And then come back and tell me who destroyed this family."

I look down.

I glance up at her, confusion flickering through the haze of rage.

"What is this?"

Her voice is cold. "The truth."

I open the file.

And the ground disappears beneath me.

Page after page.

Statement after statement.

Dates. Names. Hotel bookings. Bank transactions.

Women. So many fucking women.

All tied to Thomas. To my father.

To the man I, spent my whole damn life defending. Idolising.

My stomach lurches.

"He was cheating on you." My voice barely sounds like mine.

"Since the day we got married."

My vision blurs.

Everything I thought I knew… everything I believed in…

It’s all been a fucking lie.

I grip the folder tighter, my knuckles white.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t fucking breathe.