Breakfast Crashouts
783 Words
Episode six
I hated this country.
I hated this place.
I hated the people.
Leslie slammed her palm against the breakfast table.
“I’m done. Do you hear me? I’m fuckin done!”
“Leslie,” her mother warned sharply. “No cursing at the table.”
“Why me?” Leslie’s voice trembled. “Why is it always me? My love life is a disaster. I’ve been humiliated, betrayed—almost destroyed because of love. Why?”
Her mother inhaled slowly, as if choosing her words with care.
“If you want advice,” she said quietly, “I can only tell you the truth. The Innocence women have never had good love stories. I’m divorced. Your grandmother was divorced. My sister is divorced. There isn’t a stable marriage in this house.”
Leslie gave a hollow laugh. “So it’s a curse now?”
“I don’t know,” her mother whispered. “Maybe.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I’m sorry,” her mother added softly. “For everything you went through. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Leslie’s tears fell freely now. “If you were there… what would you have done?”
That question shattered what little control she had left.
Her breathing became uneven. Her chest tightened.
Kennedy hurried to her side and wrapped her arms around her. “Breathe. Slowly. It’s just panic. You’re safe.”
Leslie grabbed a glass of water with trembling hands.
Safe.
The word felt like a lie.
It had started in secondary school. SS3.
Vincent.
Sweet. Gentle. Smiling Vincent.
He made her heart race with teenage innocence—until she discovered she was nothing more than a truth-or-dare challenge.
And he was Mirabelle’s older brother.
Then Christian.
She was nineteen. He was older. Mature. Calm. Attentive.
Or so she thought.
He liked her because she resembled Stella.
The moment Stella returned his attention, he vanished.
No goodbye.
No explanation.
Just silence.
And then Lee mintae.
Lee mintae had nearly broken her permanently.
Betrayal in their matrimonial bed. With someone he called a childhood friend.
That memory still made her stomach twist.
Too much for someone not even thirty.
Too much for anyone.
Leslie inhaled deeply.
Enough.
She stood, washed her face, fixed her makeup, and slipped into her heels. Minutes later, she was seated in her pink bedazzled Range Rover, engine humming beneath her.
Tears wiped.
Mask restored.
She drove off.
ON CHRISTIAN'S SIDE
“Christian, why are you out of bed?” Marianne demanded. “Your rib cage was shot. Your leg is still healing.”
“I’m tired of lying down,” he replied, adjusting himself in his wheelchair. “It’s temporary. Another month and I’ll walk again. I’ve survived worse.”
“Of course you have,” she muttered.
Clara entered the dining hall, unimpressed. “Please don’t narrate your survival like it’s a holiday trip.”
The long rectangular table stood polished and intimidating beneath crystal chandeliers.
Then Charles entered.
Head full of silver hair. Posture straight. Presence commanding.
One blue eye. One green.
Christian carried a similar trait—one blue, one brown.
Charles sat at the head of the table.
“Serve the food.”
Silence followed.
The kind that suffocated.
Christian hated it. He missed the noise of his teammates. The laughter. The honesty.
He cleared his throat.
“Daniel. I heard you went to London.”
Daniel glanced at Charles.
Charles gave a slight nod.
Only then did Daniel speak.
Christian let out a dry laugh. “Still asking for permission to exist?”
Charles’ gaze hardened. “You look unpleasant this morning.”
“You mistake discipline for control,” Christian replied coolly.
“And you mistake rebellion for intelligence,” Charles shot back.
Christian leaned forward slightly. “You love control. No one here says it—but I will.”
Charles’ palm hit the table.
“You return from war, barely alive, and this is how you speak to me?”
“At least I’m doing something meaningful,” Christian snapped. “I serve the country. Who do you serve? Yourself?”
“I saved you with that ‘selfish’ money!” Charles roared. “Everything you had before you chose that battlefield came from me!”
“Did I have a choice?” Christian’s voice dropped dangerously.
The air thickened.
Clara pushed back her chair, the scrape echoing sharply.
“If breakfast is now a courtroom, I’m leaving. Goodbye, Father. Goodbye, Christian.”
One by one, the others stood.
Plates remained untouched.
Christian wheeled himself back, jaw tight, anger simmering beneath controlled composure.
He needed distance.
From the house.
From his father.
From everything.
And he needed it fast.
- Writer
