Page 49 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

COLE

T he apartment smells like fresh primer and open windows.

Sunlight cuts across the hardwood floors, scattered with drop cloths, paint trays, and half-finished canvases. It’s the only kind of mess I don’t mind living in—the kind that makes silence feel earned.

I’m standing in front of a five-foot canvas when the front door swings open without a knock.

“So—” Taylor steps inside like she owns the place. “Are any of the rumors true?”

I almost ask how the hell she found me—but I already know. It’s all over the news.

She’s dressed in expensive athleisure, her hair twisted up in a too-perfect bun, face flushed like she power-walked her rage across the city just to get here.

“The ones about my dad are facts,” I say flatly. “At least, most of the ones I’ve seen.”

“I’m talking about the one where you’re fucking Emily—your stepsister.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Is that true?”

I pour another shot of bourbon and toss it back without flinching.

“It’s a simple yes or no, Cole.” Her voice hardens. “Are you having incest sex?”

“No,” I say. Then I pause. “Not like that.”

Her shoulders drop, just slightly.

“Okay. Good. I know the rumor mill gets wild as hell, but that one’s a bit?—”

“I’m in love with my stepsister,” I interrupt. Quiet. Unshaken. “But I loved her before our parents ever got married.”

She blinks. Takes a full step back.

“Would you like to join me for a shot?” I ask, already pouring another.

“There was never a chance of you and me?” she asks. Her voice has thinned.

“No, Taylor.” I glance at her. “I don’t see you like that. You’re like family.”

“Then shouldn’t you see me like that?” she snaps.

“Get out.”

“I told you I was falling for you.”

“I never said it back.”

“You made me think you liked me.”

“How?” I finally turn to her. “I’ve never returned a single advance. Never touched you. Never kissed you. Never misled you.”

“I told Emily I liked you.”

“She told me.”

“She was supposed to be my friend.”

“She still is,” I say gently. “That’s why she didn’t have the heart to say anything. None of this was about hurting you, Taylor. I promise. There was no malice in it.”

She glares at me. Anger, then something else—something hollow—passes through her expression.

“Okay,” she says, voice low. “Taking me out of it... why would you do this to your dad? After everything he’s done for you?”

I don’t answer.

Instead, I turn back to the canvas and dip my brush into a muted blue. My strokes are controlled, deliberate. Because right now, this is the only thing I know how to hold.

When I finally look over my shoulder, she’s gone.

And for the first time all day, I let myself breathe.