The fog of sub-drop didn't clear with time; it cleared with white-hot, agonizing clarity.
By Thursday evening, the quiet misery in Dean’s chest transmuted into something entirely new: fury. Not a wild, screaming rage, but a sharp, iron-willed resolve. He was done shrinking into the corners of the house. He was done being treated like a fragile piece of glass that Kellan had broken and refused to touch.
At eight o'clock, Dean walked down the hallway toward the study. He didn't wear a high-collared sweater. He wore a dark t-shirt that left his throat completely bare, his posture straight, his chin held high.
He didn't knock on the heavy oak door. He turned the brass handle and walked right in.
Kellan was sitting behind his mahogany desk, surrounded by financial reports. The moment the do
