Chapter 8 - BRANDON’S OTHER REASON
Brandon asked to meet me alone.
I said no.
Not because I feared him.
Because I was done becoming the private archive for everybody else’s secrets.
So Lucas came.
We met Brandon at a coffee shop near downtown Asheville.
He looked worse than at the wedding.
No suit.
No confidence.
Just a man who had helped wreck a marriage and discovered that being biologically connected to a pregnancy did not automatically turn chaos into romance.
“How’s Daphne?” he asked.
I stared.
“You have her number.”
“She blocked me.”
Lucas raised an eyebrow.
“After telling everyone you’re the father?”
“Apparently.”
Brandon rubbed his face.
“I deserve that.”
“Probably.”
He nodded.
“I’m not here to defend myself.”
“Good.”
“I need to explain the eight thousand.”
“You already did.”
“Not all of it.”
Of course.
Brandon pulled out a folder.
I nearly laughed.
“Does everybody in this family communicate through folders now?”
Lucas smiled.
“Efficient.”
Brandon pushed documents toward us.
Business proposal.
Daphne’s name.
A company called Cedar & Lace Collective.
Online home goods.
Lifestyle content.
Maternity products.
“I invested forty thousand last year.”
My eyes widened.
“What?”
“She told me it was a business.”
“It was.”
“For three months.”
Then collapsed.
Brandon had put in forty thousand because Daphne said she wanted independence from Wyatt.
He believed her.
Maybe partly because he wanted the connection.
“Did Wyatt know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She said he didn’t support her.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
Wyatt asked questions.
Questions became control.
Control justified secrecy.
Secrecy created intimacy with somebody willing not to ask.
“What happened to the money?”
“Inventory.”
“Marketing.”
“Influencers.”
“Some personal expenses.”
“How personal?”
Brandon hesitated.
“Designer bags.”
I laughed.
Of course.
“Why didn’t you demand repayment?”
“I was still in love with her.”
There was no pride in it.
Lucas asked:
“Were you sleeping together then?”
“No.”
“When did that start?”
“May.”
“Why?”
Brandon looked toward the window.
“Her birthday.”
I remembered.
Daphne’s twenty-fifth birthday dinner.
Wyatt had arrived late because of work.
Daphne cried afterward.
Mom told everyone Wyatt embarrassed her.
Apparently she called Brandon.
“She said Wyatt didn’t see her.”
Brandon’s voice tightened.
“I wanted to.”
There.
Not complicated.
Not noble.
He wanted to be chosen too.
Two people feeding each other exactly what the other needed.
Daphne wanted adoration without accountability.
Brandon wanted to feel indispensable.
Dangerous combination.
“Why are you telling us?”
He looked at me.
“Because she says she’s considering raising the baby alone.”
My chest tightened.
“That’s her choice.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m the father.”
“Yes.”
“I want to be involved.”
“Then get an attorney.”
“I did.”
Good.
“But I don’t want this to become another war.”
Lucas leaned back.
“You came to the wrong family.”
Brandon almost laughed.
Then he showed us one final thing.
An audio recording.
I immediately held up a hand.
“Was this recorded legally?”
“North Carolina is one-party consent.”
He had been part of the conversation.
Fine.
The recording was from four days before my wedding.
Daphne’s voice.
Crying.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Brandon:
“Tell Wyatt.”
Daphne:
“No.”
“Then don’t announce.”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
Silence.
Then Daphne said:
“Because if Mom and Dad celebrate the baby first, they won’t let anything bad happen afterward.”
My stomach tightened.
Brandon asked:
“Like what?”
“If Wyatt leaves, they’ll help.”
“With money?”
“Yes.”
“With the house?”
“I don’t know.”
Then:
“Charlotte has the cottage.”
I stopped breathing.
Lucas’s expression hardened.
The cottage.
Before the wedding.
Before separation.
Before paternity results.
Daphne had already considered my property part of her contingency plan.
Brandon’s voice in the recording:
“That’s Charlotte’s.”
Daphne:
“She barely uses it.”
I laughed once.
Same words Mom used.
Not coincidence.
A family belief.
What I did not constantly use could be redistributed toward Daphne’s emergencies.
Brandon continued:
“You can’t plan everybody else’s resources.”
Daphne became angry.
“You don’t understand. My family always helps.”
The recording ended.
I stared at the table.
For years, I blamed Daphne entirely for taking.
But someone had taught her availability.
Mom.
Dad.
Me.
Every time we surrendered because the fight seemed exhausting.
Not equal responsibility.
But participation.
I had been helping maintain the machine while resenting the noise.
Lucas touched my wrist.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Actually yes.
Painful.
But clear.
Brandon said:
“I’m not trying to make her look worse.”
“You are doing a remarkable job accidentally.”
He smiled sadly.
“I want you to understand why I’m filing for formal paternity and custody rights.”
“Because you don’t trust her.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Because I don’t trust the people around her to stop making decisions for her.”
That surprised me.
“Your parents love her.”
“Yes.”
“But love has become interference.”
Accurate.
“If I’m going to be this child’s father, I need boundaries before birth.”
Maybe Brandon was learning too.
Then he said:
“I also need you to know I’m not getting back together with her.”
I blinked.
“That is very much not my business.”
“I know.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because your mother apparently believes the happy ending is Daphne and me raising the baby together.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course she does.”
Mom wanted a repaired picture.
Marriage gone?
Replace husband.
Baby has father.
Everybody paired.
No loose endings.
Brandon looked tired.
“I care about Daphne.”
“But?”
“I don’t trust her.”
Simple.
Painful.
“And I don’t trust myself around the version of her that makes me feel like rescuing her is love.”
That was more self-awareness than I expected.
Lucas nodded.
“Good.”
Brandon looked at me.
“If she asks you to convince me—”
“No.”
“I figured.”
“No.”
I smiled faintly.
“You don’t understand.”
“I’m not convincing anybody of anything anymore.”
We left.
Outside, Lucas took my hand.
“You know what’s weird?”
“What?”
“You’re getting terrifyingly healthy.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
We walked toward the car.
Then my phone rang.
Dad.
I answered.
His voice was panicked.
“Charlotte.”
“What?”
“Daphne is gone.”
I stopped.
“What do you mean gone?”
“She left Mom’s house.”
“Car?”
“Gone.”
“Phone?”
“Off.”
“When?”
“Three hours ago.”
My chest tightened.
“Did she say anything?”
Dad hesitated.
“She left her wedding ring on the dresser.”
Despite every boundary I had built, fear moved through me.
Not because Daphne deserved rescue from consequences.
Because she was my sister.
Pregnant.
Missing.
And accountability did not require indifference.
“Call police if you think she’s unsafe.”
“We already did.”
“Good.”
“Charlotte…”
“Yes?”
“Do you know where she might go?”
I closed my eyes.
May you like
Unfortunately—
I did.
