"Because I was there," I replied. "I was there when Mama gave you that necklace for your sixth birthday. I was there when you fell from the walnut tree behind our house and split your chin open."
I thought of Vincent again—how he'd held me through nightmares about Ana, how he'd helped me preserve the memories Prometheus had tried to erase. How he'd insisted the boy from Bosnia still lived inside me, despite everything.
Prometheus’ face contorted with rage. "That's enough!" he shouted, the gun wavering between us. "Ana, leave us. Now."
But Ana didn't move. I watched a change in her expression. Recognition fought through layers of carefully constructed falsehoods.
"Your eyes," she whispered, taking a step toward me. "They're... they're the same as mine."
"Because we're twins," I said, holding her gaze. "Born eight minutes apart. I came first, but you were always braver. You climbed higher, ran faster, laughed louder."
"He’s lying!" Prometheus growled, his voice rising. "This man is delusional. He’s insane!"
"Then how does he know about the snorting?" Ana interrupted, pulling against his grip. "I've never told anyone that I used to snort when I laughed too hard. Not even you."
"The crawlspace," Ana whispered, her eyes distant with sudden recollection. "I have dreams... nightmares about hiding in a dark space while boots stomp overhead."
My breath caught. I hadn't known about the nightmares. Prometheus hadn't erased everything after all.
Prometheus’ control finally shattered. He backhanded Ana with enough force to send her stumbling against the wall. "I gave you everything! And this is how you repay me?”
The sight of him striking her ignited something primal inside me. Last night with Vincent flashed through my mind—the ice cubes against my skin, his calm voice bringing me back when panic threatened to consume me. His unwavering belief in me.
I lunged forward despite the gun, all thought of self-preservation forgotten. Prometheus swung the weapon toward me, but his attention was divided between us now. His shot went wide as I crashed into him, both of us slamming to the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury.
We rolled across the marble, each fighting for control of the gun. He was stronger than he looked, his technique flawless as always. But I had something he didn't—twenty-six years of suppressed rage and the memory of Vincent's voice in my ear:"I see someone who survived."
The gun clattered away and his fist connected with my wounded side, sending white-hot pain radiating through my body. I gasped, momentarily stunned, and he seized the advantage. In one fluid motion, he flipped our positions, pinning me beneath him, the gun pressed against my forehead.
The position sent me spiraling into a flashback. Suddenly I wasn't thirty-two anymore but eighteen, pinned beneath him in that hotel suite, unable to move, unable to fight back despite all my training. Mymuscles locked, panic clawing up my throat as past and present merged in a nauseating spiral.
"I love you,"Vincent had said just last night. He loved me, and he meant it.
His words cut through the panic, anchoring me to the present. Vincent, who'd seen me at my worst and still believed I was worth saving. Vincent, who'd taught me that my past didn't have to define my future. Vincent, whose love had given me the strength to finally face my demons.
"Go ahead," I managed through gritted teeth, something new steadying my voice. "Finish it. But she knows now. She'll never be yours again."
His eyes flicked to Ana, who had struggled to her feet, one hand pressed to her reddened cheek. In the other trembling hand, she held my gun.
"Ana," he called, his voice softening. "This man wants to take you away from me. He wants to hurt you. Undo all of our hard work. He wants to destroy our family.”
Ana raised the gun, aiming it first at me, then at him. Her hands shook violently, tears streaming down her face.
"Ana," I said softly. "Whatever you decide, it's okay. I failed you once. I won't blame you if you pull that trigger."
Prometheus held out his hand. “Ana, darling, give me the gun.”
She inhaled sharply. I closed my eyes, thinking of Vincent—his gentle touch, his quiet strength, the way he'd looked at me last night as if I were something precious instead of something broken. If I died now, at least I'd known that feeling once.
"Lincoln?" Her voice quavered.
"Yes, my love?"
"You said my parents died in the Bosnian war. That we were Serbian refugees."
"That's right."
"I remember the adhan," she said, eyes distant. “I remember the mosque. I remember the tree. Mama’s kitchen. Falling into the pond while trying to collect frog eggs. And I remember…” Her eyes flicked to me. “A boy. My friend. My brother. The other half of my soul. I remember everything.”
