"Roland, Mom and I genuinely wanted to pay our respects. No matter what anyone says, your mother did die because of us. I feel terrible about it."

Frederick's voice dripped with false sincerity.

"But I just graduated—I can't afford an expensive gift. So let me sing you a song instead. As an apology. Would that be alright?"

Before I could respond, he'd already darted to the karaoke machine.

The next second, an upbeat melody filled the room.

I went rigid.

On the anniversary of my mother's brutal death, he was going to sing me "Good Times"?

Frederick caught my eye and winked.

Winked.

The rage I'd been choking down erupted.

I grabbed the bottle from the coffee table and swung it at his head.

Crack.

Glass shattered. Alcohol sprayed.

Frederick shrieked and dove behind Rosemary.

"Rosemary! Are you okay?" He clutched at her arm, his voice pitched high with theatrical terror. "I didn't mean to—I swear I didn't pick that song! I must have been so nervous seeing Roland that I hit the wrong button—"

Rosemary stepped between us. Blood trickled down from her forehead where a shard had caught her, but the look she leveled at me held nothing but fury.

"Roland, what the hell is wrong with you?" She jabbed a finger at my chest. "He's your half-brother! How could you hit him?"

"With that temper of yours, no wonder Frederick was too scared to think straight."

"I actually felt guilty about keeping this from you. Now I see I was right. If you'd known sooner, you probably would've attacked him ages ago!"

Frederick wrapped his arms around her shoulders, gazing up at her with wet, grateful eyes.

"Rosemary, you're so good to me. Always protecting me."

She softened instantly, reaching up to ruffle his hair with an indulgent smile.

"What else am I supposed to do? You're soft as a little rabbit. If I don't look out for you, the big bad wolf will eat you alive."

Something cold pierced through my chest.

Those words.

A younger Rosemary had said those exact words to me once. Back when I was the one who needed protecting.

She'd probably forgotten.

I drew a slow breath. Steadied myself.

Then I reached into my bag and pulled out the divorce agreement—the one she'd never finished signing.

"Rosemary." My voice came out flat. "Let's get divorced."

She let out a short, mocking laugh and scrawled her signature across the document without even glancing at it.

"Really, Roland? You couldn't make this stick last time, so you're trying again?" She shoved the papers back at me. "Fine. I'll sign. But I didn't cheat this time, so don't expect me to beg for forgiveness."

"One month. City Hall." Her smile was razor-thin. "You'd better still have this much backbone then. Don't come crawling back, crying and begging me to tear this up."

She was so certain.

Every time before, I'd forgiven her. Swallowed my pride for the sake of the alliance between our families. She believed—knew—I'd never actually go through with it.

She was wrong.

"Don't worry." I met her gaze without flinching. "I won't change my mind."

I turned and walked out without looking back.

I didn't go home.

I booked a hotel room for a month instead—long enough to wait out the mandatory cooling-off period.

In the days that followed, Rosemary didn't send a single message.

Word reached me through the grapevine: Frederick had mentioned wanting to learn to ski in Switzerland. Rosemary happened to own an estate there, so she'd whisked him away.

Louis Sullivan's voice crackled through the phone, seething with disbelief.

"What the actual hell is she thinking?"

"Everyone knows that estate was built for you. After she confessed her feelings, she had it constructed specifically to give you a belated honeymoon. It's only ever been open to you."

"And now she's taking her father's bastard there?" He let out a sharp, incredulous breath. "Is she at it again? Old habits die hard—is she cheating on you with him now?"

I sat by the floor-to-ceiling window of my hotel room, staring at the divorce papers spread across the table.

I didn't know what to say.

These papers—Rosemary had drafted them herself. The last time I'd caught her cheating.

Back then, the humiliation had been suffocating. I'd called Louis and dragged him to a nightclub, determined to drink myself numb until dawn.

Rosemary had found out somehow.

She'd stormed in with an entourage, trashed the place, and beaten every woman who'd so much as glanced in my direction.

She grabbed my collar with a vicious grip.

"Roland, you're ruthless."

"Fine. I admit it—I fell in love with you. I can't stand the thought of another woman near you. Happy now?"

Then came that livestream confession that broke the internet.

Rosemary swore she'd changed. No more games. She'd be a devoted wife.

And for a while, we did have something sweet.

Just like Louis said, she went all in—learning my interests, anticipating my needs.

When she found out I loved skiing, she built me a private estate in Switzerland. Even named it after us—a blend of our names, a promise carved into the mountainside.

But now.

I stared at Frederick's latest social media post.

The estate's sign had been replaced.

Those four characters that once meant everything—Rosemary & Roland—had been swapped out for Sweethearts: Rosemary & Frederick.

"Yes, she cheated again. So no, I won't be taking her back."

I set down my phone and signed my name on the divorce papers without a second thought.

On the seventh day after my mother's death—the day of her memorial—my father called and asked me to come home for breakfast.

I thought maybe he still had some shred of feeling for her.

Maybe he wanted to burn offerings together.

I walked in and found Frederick and his mother, Astrid Fleming, already seated at the table.

My expression went cold. I turned to leave.

"Stay right there!"

My father's voice cracked like a whip. Before I could take another step, he launched into me.

"I heard you tried to hit Frederick at the club the other day! What the hell is wrong with you? Is that any way to treat your brother?!"

"Thank God Rosemary stepped in, or who knows what you would've done. You hurt her, and now you want a divorce? Running away from home like some child?!"

"I don't know what your mother taught you, but she raised a thug. You'd better get on your knees and apologize before you destroy the partnership between our families!"

I looked at this man—this man who saw nothing but profit margins and alliances.

A cold laugh escaped me.

"If you knew I'd left home, why didn't you ask where I've been staying? Whether I was okay?"

"Oh, right—I forgot. Your heart belongs to your mistress now. That's why you couldn't even bother showing up to your own wife's funeral. You're that shameless, and you dare lecture me about my mother?!"

My father slammed his chopsticks down and raised his hand to strike me.

Astrid's eyes darted, calculating. She grabbed his arm just in time, her face arranged into a picture of gentle concern.

"Honey, what are you doing? The boy's grieving. We should be understanding—he's in pain. I don't mind, really."

"Besides, if you bruise his face, how will he stand beside Frederick as best man?"

I froze.

My voice came out raw, scraped hollow.

"What did you just call him? You two are married?!"

"My mother's been dead seven days, and you couldn't wait to bring your mistress through the front door?!"

My father's expression hardened, utterly unrepentant.

"Your mother's gone—what, am I supposed to mourn her forever?!"

"Frederick's grown now. I can't let people keep calling him a bastard behind his back. This is my responsibility as a father!"

Responsibility.

I collapsed into the chair, a broken laugh tearing out of me. Tears spilled before I could stop them.

Frederick sidled up beside me, reaching for my hand with sickening familiarity.

"This is great, brother! Now we're officially family. I don't know all the rules of high society yet—you'll have to teach me, okay? I'd hate to embarrass myself."

"Sure." I met his eyes. "No problem."

Astrid and my father exchanged satisfied smiles.

I wiped my face dry. Lit a cigarette with one hand. Drew in a slow breath.

Then exhaled the smoke directly into Frederick's face.

"Here's your first lesson." My voice was ice. "I'm the legitimate son. You're the bastard. Until I speak to you first, you don't get to open your mouth in my presence."

I leaned closer, letting the cigarette glow between us.

"Understood?"

I ground the cigarette butt into the back of his hand.

Amid the sizzle of scorching flesh and Frederick's shriek, I grabbed his chin and forced his face toward mine.

"You think I don't know? You spoke to my mother alone before she died. I haven't even settled that score with you yet—so don't push me."

"Roland! Have you lost your mind?! He's your brother!"

My father slammed his palm on the table. Astrid rushed to pull the sobbing Frederick into her arms, shooting me a venomous glare.

I dusted off my hands with a dry laugh.

"My mother only gave birth to one son. Where exactly did this so-called 'brother' come from?"

I turned to my father, voice flat. "You know my temper. You want to throw a wedding for these two and officially announce what they are? Go ahead. I dare you. I'll have people tear the whole thing apart before the vows are spoken. Try me."

Perhaps because I was still the Henson family's son-in-law, my father and Astrid's faces twisted with barely suppressed fury.

But before either could respond, a familiar voice cut through from behind me.

"With me here, I'd like to see who dares."

Rosemary strolled in, one hand tucked casually in her pocket.

The moment Frederick saw her, he scrambled toward her like she was his salvation—sobbing, thrusting his burned hand in her face.

Rosemary's expression softened with exaggerated concern. She cooed at him, stroking his hair.

"Poor thing. I'll take you to the best dermatologist in the city. Not a single scar, I promise."

She pinched his cheek playfully. "Our little Frederick still has to be the most handsome groomsman at Daddy's wedding, doesn't he?"

I stared at her, disbelief curdling into something darker. My voice came out raw.

"Rosemary. Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

She lifted her gaze to meet mine. Her lips curved in something that might have been a smile, but her eyes were arctic.

"I heard everything. Men from wealthy families—who doesn't have a woman or two on the side? Your mother died because she couldn't handle it. You're really going to blame Frederick for that?"

She stepped closer, her voice turning sharp. "You got to grow up with a father by your side. Why shouldn't he have the same?"

"No matter what it takes, I'm bringing him into the Sullivan family. Everyone will know he's the legitimate young master of this house—and no one will ever call him a bastard again."

Her chin lifted. "You want to wreck the wedding, Roland? Go ahead. Try me."

I knew she meant it.

The last time she'd made a threat like that, the target's company had been swallowed whole by the Hensons within a week. The man himself had his legs broken, his tongue cut out, and vanished from Seaside City entirely.

And that had only been because he'd made a crude joke about me.

I should have seen this coming.

Rosemary had always been fickle. To her, my father's affair was trivial—barely worth mentioning. She couldn't begin to comprehend what my mother and I had suffered.

But knowing that didn't make it hurt any less—being stabbed in the front by the woman who'd once shared my bed.

My hand moved before I could think.

The slap cracked across her face.

"Get out."

Rosemary let out a soft, humorless laugh and worked her jaw, testing the sting.

Before she could speak, Frederick lunged at me.

"I've had enough of you! Don't you dare touch her again!"

He shoved me—hard.

I went sprawling backward into the two massive potted cacti behind me.

Needles pierced my back, my palms, everywhere. Blood welled up in bright droplets. I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth, the pain white-hot and relentless.

My father's lip curled with irritation.

"A perfectly good breakfast, ruined by your tantrum."

He stood, adjusting his cuffs. "Rosemary, perfect timing. Have you eaten? Let's dine out."

Rosemary didn't even glance my way. She murmured a distracted agreement, too busy fussing over Frederick's hand, and led him toward the door.

At the threshold, Frederick turned back.

His lips moved silently, forming words meant only for me.