Page 19

We cry into each other’s shoulders, the grief bubbling up raw and ugly between us, years of shared memories and lost futures collapsing into the space of a single, broken embrace.

“I’m so sorry, B,” I choke out against her hair, my voice thick. “I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just... I didn’t know how to deal with it. How to survive it. I... I still don’t.”

“I know,” she sobs quietly. “I don’t either.”

We stand there like that for what feels like forever. Two sisters holding each other together with shaking arms and shattered hearts, trying to stitch ourselves back together with nothing but tears and the fragile, stubborn thread of love that somehow still remains.

Bianca studies me for a long, painful moment, searching for something in my face, maybe for the little sister she used to know before everything shattered.

Finally, she sighs, wrapping her arm around my shoulder and guiding me toward the window seat.

“Come on,” she says, softer now. “Come sit with me.”

We sit side-by-side, legs curled up, staring out at the manicured gardens stretching beyond the glass.

For a while, we don’t talk. We just exist in the same quiet space, breathing the same heavy air. Eventually, she nudges me with her shoulder and smirks. “Remember when we used to sneak wine out of Dad’s cabinet and drink it in the treehouse?”

A broken laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Yeah. And you threw up for two days straight. Dad was so angry.”

Bianca grins, that first real flash of the sister I remember. “You dared me to drink it,” she accuses.

“You dared yourself,” I counter, smiling despite myself.

For the first time in what feels like forever, something small and fragile stirs in my chest, something that feels suspiciously like hope.

Maybe we’re both broken. Maybe we’re stitched together with grief and guilt and everything we don't know how to say.

But at least we still have each other.

The sun is starting to dip below the hills when Bianca appears in the doorway of my bedroom later that day, holding a small, velvet-covered box against her chest.

My heart quivers at the sight of it.

Mum’s jewellery box.

Bianca pads across the room in bare feet, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside me without saying a word. She sets the box down between us, her fingers lingering on the worn edges for a moment like she's gathering courage.

“I thought...” she trails off, swallowing hard. “Maybe we could go through it together.”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

Bianca lifts the lid, and the familiar, faint scent of Mum's perfume spills into the room, that soft floral scent she used to spray behind her ears every morning. For a moment, it’s like she’s here with us.

The box is full of memories. Tangled chains, mismatched earrings, delicate rings that used to glint on her fingers. Little pieces of her, frozen in time.

We sift through it slowly, reverently, the way you might handle something sacred. Bianca lifts out a chunky gold bracelet I remember Mum wearing at every special occasion, letting it dangle from her fingers. I find the pair of tiny silver studs Mum gave me when I turned sixteen.

But then my hand brushes something soft, velvet against velvet, and I lift it out carefully.

A necklace.

A simple gold chain with a small locket hanging from it. Worn smooth from years of being touched, turned, and treasured.

“I remember this,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “She wore it every day.”

Bianca smiles sadly. “She used to say it was her good luck charm.”

I run my thumb over the surface of the locket, feeling the tiny ridges. My chest aches with a bittersweet kind of longing.

“Can I...?” My voice falters. Bianca nods before I even finish the question.

She takes the necklace from my shaking hands and moves behind me. I lift my hair, and she fastens the clasp gently at the nape of my neck, her fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

When I turn back around, she’s blinking furiously against the tears welling in her eyes.

“It suits you,” she says softly.

I reach up and touch the locket, the cool metal pressing into my skin, a tether to something solid, something real.

A piece of Mum, still with me.

Still with us.

Without thinking, I lean into Bianca’s arms, and she holds me tightly, as if affixing us both to the only thing we have left, each other.

And for the first time since the accident, the crushing weight in my chest eases just a little bit.

It’s just past one in the morning. The night air is balmy, heavy, thick with the sweet, cloying scent of gardenias and the faint salt tang from the sea. Somewhere deep inside the Russo manor, the last echoes of laughter and clinking glasses fade into silence.

It seems everyone else in the manor has found sleep, but I can’t.

The walls of my bedroom feel like they’re pressing in, suffocating me. So, I slip out quietly, barefoot, my breath held tight in my chest as I creep up the marble stairs and push open the door leading to the rooftop terrace.

The cool breeze kisses my skin the moment I step outside. Above me, the stars are scattered like spilled diamonds across a velvet sky. I stop for a moment, close my eyes and inhale deeply.

The pool glows under the moonlight, silver and still, a mirror to another world, one I wish I could fall into and never come back from.

Without thinking, without caring, I strip down to my underwear and slide into the water. The shock of the cold catches my breath for a moment, but then it soothes something raw inside me. I float on my back, the silence wrapping around me like a fragile cocoon.

For the first time in days, the ache in my chest softens.

My eyes close, enjoying the silence.

And then I hear it.

A door slamming open.

My eyes snap open. Shit, is someone up here? I push myself upright and look around, but no one is there. My eyes catch movement across the terrace, near a set of glass doors leading to one of the private suites.

Fuck. Is that—Oh God, it’s Ares and he’s with a woman .

I swim to the edge of the infinity pool to get a better look.

Ares is shirtless, his body gleaming under the moonlight.

A canvas of dark tribal tattoos and brutal muscle.

The woman is clinging to him, her shapely legs wrapped around his waist, her arms tangled around his neck.

They kiss like they’re starving for each other, desperate, messy, almost violent .

I freeze in the water, my heart stuttering painfully against my ribs. I should look away. I should swim back to the far side of the pool, slip back inside the manor, and pretend I never saw any of this.

But I can’t. I can’t bloody move. Can’t catch my damn breath.

Ares shoves the woman against the doorframe with a roughness that would terrify anyone else, but she seems to enjoy it, clutching at him harder.

He tears her dress open with a savage rip, baring her to the night. The fabric falls away like water, pooling at her waist. His hands are brutal, claiming, squeezing, punishing. There’s no gentleness in the way he touches her. No tenderness in the way his mouth crushes hers.

I press my palm against my mouth, silencing the sound building in my throat. Not a cry, or a gasp, but something darker, needier. A heady heat coils deep in my core.

Ares spins the woman to face the wall, yanking her arms up over her head, holding her there with one hand braced against the back of her neck.

He doesn’t say anything.

I don’t see him whispering sweet words or promises.

He just frees himself from his black jeans with a flick of his wrist. I see him pull out a condom and tear the wrapper with his teeth, and then he’s inside her, thrusting deep and hard.

I can’t hear him from where I am, but I imagine a low snarl tearing from his throat.

The woman cries out, but he doesn't slow.

Doesn’t kiss her.

Doesn’t look at her.

His face, God, his face, is cold. Detached, like she’s not even there.

Like he’s not fucking her, he’s exorcising something black and ugly inside him.

My heart pounds against my ribs, painful and frantic. I’m trembling, half from the chill of the water and half from the shame curling low in my stomach.

I should leave. I should hide.

But I stay, and I watch. I watch, unblinking, the way his muscles tense with every savage thrust, the way his fingers dig bruises into her skin, the way his mouth stays hard and set, as if he’s punishing himself more than he’s punishing her.

And somewhere between horror and fascination, I realise, I’m jealous.

Jealous of the woman gasping under him. Jealous of the way he’s using her body, even if there’s no affection in it. I realise then that I want to be the one he loses himself in. I want to be the one who makes him break.

Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t wipe them away. I just let them fall into the water, vanishing like they were never there.

It’s over quickly.

Ares bites down on his lip, visibly shudders against the woman with one final thrust. Everything goes still for about ten seconds, and then he pulls back, fumbles for a second and zips up his jeans without so much as a glance at her.

The woman slumps against the wall, dazed, already forgotten. Ares disappears through the door without a word, slamming it behind him, leaving her half-naked and breathless in the moonlight.

What. The. Fuck.

I sink lower into the pool, the cold water lapping at my chin. I don't know how long I float there after he’s gone. My mind in a haze, shivering in the dark, my heart broken open by something I don’t even understand.

All I know is that I’m ruined. And Ares Russo doesn't even know he’s the one who broke me.