Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 223(@200wpm)___ 179(@250wpm)___ 149(@300wpm)
She’s my half-sister.
But I don’t say any of it, leaving Landon to decide when it’s time to bring Lilith into the family secrets.
All I can do is reach for her hand, free of pride or judgment, my fingers lacing with hers as we both struggle through the pain.
“Talk to him,” I finally say. “Vance is completely in love with you. Don’t let another day go by without honoring that. You never know when fate might rip it away.”
“Why are you being kind to me?” She turns toward me, raccoon-eyed and vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before. “I’ve been horrendous to you.”
“So was Sebastian in the beginning, but I saw him.” I pause, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I see you, Lilith. Vance will, too.”
14
Time blurs like watercolors bleeding together, reds and blues crafting a mural of dusty plum. I drift through the days, detached from everything that used to tether me.
The only constant is Oliver’s shadow in my doorway each night, his presence both an anchor and a cage as my fingers trace familiar paths. The edge always comes, threatening to bust through my shield with an explosion I might not survive.
And that’s why I pull back, night after night, denying myself the release I crave as his dark gaze burns into my skin.
I don’t understand this ritual we’ve created. Why he needs to witness my restraint. Why I let him. But it’s become the only thing that feels real anymore.
During the day, I’m as much of a ghost as Sebastian.
Astrid oversees my meals, dutifully watching me eat food I can’t taste. Sleep comes in fits and starts. I’ve thought about picking up my sketchbook to design my wedding dress, but it’s hard to plan a future I’m no longer excited about. The fashion line I once dreamed of feels like someone else’s ambition now, a remnant of a girl who no longer exists, so the pages remain blank.
Oliver disappears into his work, supposedly buried in Brotherhood ledgers and spreadsheets. But the few times I’ve passed his home office, I find him frozen in place, staring at the same document as if his mind isn’t in the room at all.
Each night, I rush past the locked door that lingers at the edge of my awareness and slip into the rhythm of our rendezvous. It’s the only thing that cracks through my apathy, this ritual straddling the line between intimacy and indecency. Not that I mind the numbness. It’s become my refuge, a quiet space between breathing and breaking.
But even apathy has its limits, because on the afternoon of the memorial, my tears come back with a vengeance.
I cross the threshold of the grand ballroom and take in the sea of solemn faces as a splinter of grief lodges deep. Calla lilies and winter roses hang thick in the air, mingling with the scent of melted wax. Chairs creak as guests shift in their seats, the occasional sniffle or muffled sob rising like static.
At the podium, a man I don’t recognize speaks, his white hair glowing silver-blue beneath the lights. He drones on about loss, legacy, and sacrifice, but the words are soulless vibrations buzzing in my ears.
For the entirety of his rehearsed speech, I fix my gaze on the eight-foot photographs at the front of the room. Sebastian’s azure eyes stare back, impossibly alive, his crooked grin spearing me in the heart.
A direct hit.
Next to him, Tatum leans casually against a stone pillar. Both are captured mid-laugh, frozen in black frames—snapshots of moments that will never happen again.
Mr. Stone rises from his seat, and my spine stiffens. The room stills as he walks to the podium with practiced poise, but there’s something staged in the way he carries himself. He clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice trembles in a display of grief.
“Sebastian embraced his legacy.” He pauses, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he swipes a finger across the dry plane of his cheek. “I’ll always be proud of the man he was.”
He goes on, spinning a story of love and pride between father and son.
Every bit of it fictional.
And then, like a ripple through time, his voice collides with a memory…
Give him the queen’s punishment. She’ll suffer enough when he breaks.
My mind flashes back to the day Sebastian took fifty lashes for our stolen kiss in the gazebo. The man who dares to call himself his father said those words as if they meant nothing.
A chasm splits open inside me, and my lungs seize. I jump to my feet, everything around me melting to gray, and barely register Liam standing.
Or Oliver telling him to let me go.
I’m already shoving through the heavy French doors, with Astrid not far behind. The winter air bites through my thin black dress, but I welcome the sting.
Snow drifts down in lazy spirals as my feet carry me across the grounds until the white-pillared structure emerges.