She shrugs. “Not like that. But it doesn’t make it easier.”
My jaw ticks. “Then why do you get to be near her, and I don’t?”
Her voice stays steady. “Because I didn’t lie. I didn’t make her fall in love with someone who was hiding the worst truth imaginable.”
That one cuts deep. “I didn’t mean to lie,” I say. “I was just... trying to keep her.”
“She’s not something to keep, Sin.”
I know she’s right. But I hate it. I stare down at my hands. “You told me I can’t love her anymore.”
Bria nods. “You can’t.”
“Then why the hell do I still feel like she’s mine?” My voice is sharp. Bitter. “Why do I wake up thinking about her? Why does it kill me to picture her smiling at anyone else?”
Bria turns to me, quiet for a long moment. Then she says, “Because love doesn’t leave just because it’s inconvenient.”
Something in me twists. I glance at her. “So it’s easier for you? To still be her friend?”
“No,” she whispers. “It’s hell.”
That silence again. This time, we let it sit.
“I hate them, Bria,” I finally say. “The Rusco’s. Every last one of them. If it weren’t for her…”
She finishes it for me. “You would’ve burned them to the ground already.”
I nod. “She’s the only reason there’s still a line I haven’t crossed.”
Bria’s voice drops. “Then maybe it’s time we stop pretending that line even exists.”
I meet her gaze. The wind is cold, but her eyes are burning with regret to what she just implied.
Together, we say it.
“They’re the enemy.”
We don’t speak again. There’s nothing else to say.
Just two siblings standing in the middle of a war, loving the same girl from different sides of the line, and finally choosing the only truth left.
She didn’t destroy us.
They did.
SEVEN
Magnolia’s POV
Aweek passes in a blur of routine, familiarity laced with discomfort.
I wake early each morning, the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifting through the halls as the household stirs to life. It’s always the same brand, the same richness, the same precision with which it’s made, like even the coffee here understands its place in the grand scheme of this house.
It’s a different kind of wake-up call than I’m used to. There’s no distant shouting, no footsteps echoing down orphanage hallways, no chaos of city life humming below my bedroom window. Here, there’s only soft morning light leaking through gauzy curtains, the rustle of tailored clothes, and the quiet rhythm of a world that seems to move without ever raising its voice.
It’s too quiet.
Too clean. Too still. It feels like living inside a snow globe. Pretty, polished, and utterly breakable.
