Nate remains frozen, his breathing ragged like a wounded animal’s, each exhale weighted with years of suppressed rage. His fists are still clenched, knuckles bleached white with restraint that's rapidly unraveling.

"Nate, leave it. Please." Lydia's voice is soft but urgent, like trying to talk down an approaching tornado.

But he's beyond words now, lost in a red mist of fury and old wounds torn fresh. His body vibrates with barely contained violence, a bomb with a rapidly burning fuse.

"Nate," I plead, my voice cracking like thin ice. "Whatever you're thinking right now, just breathe. Don't let him win."

He doesn't acknowledge me. His focus is laser-locked on the door Scott disappeared through, every muscle coiled for pursuit. Then he moves, and it's like watching destiny unfold in slow motion.

Lydia turns to me, her face a roadmap of desperate fear.

"Stop him. Please. Don't let him do something he'll regret."

I nod, already running.

"Nate!" My voice chases him down the hallway, but it feels futile, like trying to stop an avalanche with whispers.

Because deep in my gut, I know this isn't something anyone can stop. This is Nate's Rubicon, his point of no return, and all I can do is pray I'm fast enough to prevent the impending catastrophe. Or at least be there to gather what remains when the dust settles.

71. The Sins We Inherit

CHAPTER 71

THE SINS WE INHERIT

NATE

I'm sitting in the car, knuckles white against black leather, watching the neon sign above Furlo's flicker like a dying heartbeat. Each breath feels like swallowing glass, sharp and cold against my throat. The parking lot stretches before me, a canvas of shadows and regret.

My phone illuminates the darkness again—Nora. The voicemail notification blinks accusingly, her words from earlier echoing in my mind: "I'm with you, Nate. No more hiding."

The truth sits heavy in my chest.

I can't drag her into this anymore.

She deserves better than someone who carries destruction in their DNA. She broke through every wall I built, only to find herself in the middle of my personal hell. That's my specialty—corrupting everything pure that dares to touch my life. Maybe it's the universe's twisted way of saying I don't get the fairytale ending. No girl, no dreams, no shot at redemption. Just my father's legacy of rage wrapped in designer suits and trust fund guilt.

Another call lights up the screen. I throw the phone onto the passenger seat, watching her name fade to black. It feels like watching my last chance at happiness slip through my fingers. The night air hits me as I step out. There's a sick irony in heading into another bar, choosing another fight—becoming everything I swore I'd never be. But this—this familiar dance of anger and self-destruction—is the only home I've ever known.