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Then she appeared. My stepmother. Standing in the doorway, watching in silence, wearing some deep red cape like she’d dressed for a ritual. And she laughed. Shelaughedas Dad beat Dorian numb.

“Run,” Dorian whispered.

“Run!” he shouted this time, shoving me free.

I stood, shaking. Looked back one last time. Then ran. Brushed past Dad. Past Dorian. Toward the door. Toward her. She didn’t even try to stop me.

I rushed down the stairs, my soul calling for him. Tears streamed without permission. I couldn’t keep going—I couldn’t run. I stopped.

And then I turned. I ran back.

Before I even reached the front door, she grabbed me. Her nails dug into my arm as she pulled me away. Over her shoulder, I saw him. Dorian’s body is on the floor. Still. Not moving.

“No!” I screamed, shoving her with everything I had.

But then Father appeared behind me. Without a word, he seized me by the arm and dragged me toward the attic door. I fought. I kicked. I begged. He didn’t listen.

He shoved me through and slammed the door behind me, locking it. I pounded my fists against the wood, again and again—hard enough to shake the walls, hard enough to wake the dead. But no one came.

No one came for me.

No one came for him.

I sank on the stairs, burying my face in my palms, my elbows pressed to my knees.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. And when the tears finally dried, I stood and climbed the steps.

The attic. Dorian’s room for years. But it was the first time I’d ever been here.

Dust clung to everything. The air was stale. There was no bed, just a single blanket folded neatly on the wooden floor. No pillow. No mattress. Just that blanket.

Boxes were stacked along the walls, old furniture draped in white sheets like ghosts waiting to be remembered. It didn’t feel like someone lived here. It felt like someone hid here.

Only one thing wasn’t covered: a wooden chest in the corner.

I moved toward it, and knelt, my heart cracking open all over again. I lifted the lid.

Inside were his clothes. Black jeans. Black shirts. Two jackets, all folded carefully. At the bottom, tucked in the corner, was a golden chain.

Mygolden chain. He kept it.

I reached for it, but as I moved one of his shirts, something slipped out and fell to the floor. A Polaroid photo.

Us.

Sitting on the sofa on my fourteenth birthday. My first time drunk. The night we playedMemory Lane.The night he took that photo. He’d kept it.

It was the only picture in the chest. And it was us.

I crumpled to the floor, sobs rising again as the photo trembled in my hands. Somewhere below me, he was hurting—maybe worse. Alone.

I didn’t feel the pain anymore—the stinging welts across my back, my arms. I barely noticed them. All I could think about was him.

I leaned against the chest, pressing the photo to my chest. I stared at his eyes, the way they looked at mine in the picture.

Then I closed my eyes, holding onto that look, letting it pull me back in time.

I stood in front of Gloomsbury Manor, a Polaroid picture in my hand. It’s crazy how happy we looked—how much itseemedlike family. But no one would ever know how miserable we were. How he wasn’t even my blood. He was my stepbrother. How behind every smile, something is hiding. And once youdosee it, it rips you apart.