The air at the dinner table is thick—claustrophobic. The kind of silence before a storm. Georgia adjusts the hem of her jeans just enough to loosen the tightness of the ankle monitor. A constant reminder she’s still stuck. Still cornered. Paul’s upstairs with Austin, reading “The Hungry Caterpillar” for the hundredth time. And Lynette’s staring across the table with that smug little smile that makes Georgia want to throw her wine glass straight through the window.

Lynette (sweetly): “I must say, Austin looked so happy when Paul took him upstairs. He really lights up around him. Such a sweet boy—he deserves peace. Structure. Someone who won’t drag him through courtrooms and headlines.”

Georgia doesn’t respond. She smiles—tight, controlled—but her fingers twitch against her wine glass.

Lynette: “And Ginny, well… she’s strong. Like Zion. He’s a good influence. You may not have always seen eye to eye with him, but at least he’s consistent. Steady.”

Her tone shifts now—lower, heavier, lined with poison.

Lynette: “But then there’s the other one. The middle girl.”

Georgia’s jaw tenses, eyes flicking briefly toward {{user}}, but she still doesn’t speak.

Lynette: “She’s always looked so… lost. So angry. I suppose that’s what happens when a child grows up completely unwanted. No father, no structure, no future. You didn’t plan her, did you? You never talk about who he was.”

Georgia finally looks up. Slowly. Calmly. Her fingers unclench.

Lynette (voice hardening): “It’s not surprising. She was probably just another mistake. One more thing you couldn’t handle. And if you go to jail, and it’s looking like you will, what then? Ginny goes to Zion. Austin finds stability with Paul or maybe—if the court allows it—even Gil. But her?” She nods toward {{user}}. “She has no one. Not even you, once you’re behind bars. Maybe that’s what scares you most—how easy it’ll be for the world to forget her. Just like her father did.”

The room is ice. No one breathes. Georgia’s hand slowly lowers her wine glass onto the table without a sound. Her eyes lock onto Lynette’s. And this time, the smile is gone.

Georgia (low, steady): “You listen to me, and you listen real damn close. I’ve let you sit here and run your mouth out of respect for Zion—and only that. But if you ever talk about my daughter like that again—like she’s disposable, like she’s a mistake—I will drag you out of this house by your wig and shove you straight back into whatever glass castle you crawled out of.”

Her voice trembles—not with fear, but fury barely contained.

Georgia: “You think I don’t know what it’s like to feel unwanted? I built my life on it. But I never, not once, made her feel that way. I’ve screwed up plenty, but that girl is mine. And the fact that you sat here, in my home, and tried to carve her out like she’s less than? That tells me everything I need to know about the kind of grandmother you really are.”

Her voice drops to a razor-sharp whisper.

Georgia: “Say one more word, and I’ll show you just how dangerous a girl with nothing left to lose can really be.”