“All right, enough. Stop crying. I’ll put something on it.”

Dominic’s voice softened as he brushed my hair back, his hand warm against my head in that same careless kind of affection he’d always given me—like it cost him nothing.

He stood and crossed to the wall cabinet, unlocking it with a quiet click. Inside sat a compact medical kit—nothing official, just the kind of supplies men in our world kept for injuries that couldn’t be brought to hospitals.

“Honestly,” he muttered, half amused, “you’re not a kid anymore, Celeste Whitestone. And a small burn has you tearing up like this? What would you do without me?”

I didn’t answer.

I stared at the raw mark on my wrist—angry, red, throbbing. The ointment hadn’t even touched it yet, but it already felt deeper than skin. Like something meant to stay.

Seven years.

Seven years of being taken care of, shielded, kept close.

What would I do without him?

The thought should’ve comforted me.

It didn’t.

Quietly, I answered myself.

I’d learn.

Because Dominic… I don’t want this anymore. Not this version of you. Not this warmth that only shows up when it’s convenient.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

The city lights bled through the curtains, pale and restless. I woke more than once, unease sitting heavy in my chest like something waiting to happen.

Just before dawn, my door opened.

Dominic didn’t knock.

He never did.

He walked in like he owned the space—like he always had—and grabbed my wrist, pulling me upright.

“Up,” he said lightly.

I groaned, trying to pull back. “It’s still dark…”

He only chuckled and leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to my lips like it was nothing.

Like it was routine.

My breath caught.

My body reacted before my mind did—I almost struck him.

Almost.

When he pulled away, he looked entirely too satisfied with himself.

“Awake now?” he said.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, irritation sharp in my chest. “It’s my rest day. Let me sleep.”

“You had a fever all night,” he replied, already turning away to grab his coat. “You’re coming with me. I’m having you checked.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re coming.”

And that was the end of it.

So I went.

—

The private clinic sat behind one of our front businesses—clean, quiet, discreet. The kind of place that treated gunshot wounds without asking questions.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and expensive silence.

And then—

I saw her.

Adeline.

She stood near the hallway corner, one hand braced against the wall, her weight uneven like she was about to fall.

I barely had time to process it.

Dominic was already moving.

The hand that had been holding mine slipped away without hesitation.

Three quick strides—and he caught her.

“Adeline,” his voice changed instantly—tight, focused. “What happened?”

She looked up at him… then past him.

At me.

“It’s nothing serious,” she said softly, a small smile on her lips like the years between them hadn’t existed. “Just a sprain. Funny running into you here.”

Dominic hesitated.

Just for a second.

Then he glanced back at me, like he’d almost forgotten I was there.

“Ah,” he said casually, “I brought my… sister in. She had a fever.”

Sister.

The word landed clean.

Precise.

I didn’t react.

I had learned not to.

Adeline nodded, like that explained everything. “You always did take care of people close to you.”

She shifted slightly, wincing.

Dominic didn’t even think.

He lifted her into his arms.

Effortless.

Natural.

Like it had always been her place.

“I’ll carry you,” he said, already walking.

Then, over his shoulder—careless, distant, like it meant nothing:

“Celeste, wait here.”

And just like that—

he was gone.

No second look.

No pause.

No question.

Just Adeline.

I leaned back against the cold wall, the quiet settling in around me.

Strangely… I felt something leave with him.

Like whatever had been holding me together all this time had finally loosened its grip.

—

When the doctor finally examined me, his expression shifted.

“Forty-one point three,” he muttered, frowning. “That’s not a simple fever.”

He looked at my wrist next, gently turning it under the light.

The burn had worsened—angrier, inflamed, the skin tight and unforgiving.

“You should’ve come in sooner,” he said. “This is infected. Stress like this only makes it worse.”

I nodded, barely listening.

“Sit. We’ll start an IV.”

My hand moved automatically toward my phone.

Dominic.

The instinct came without thought.

Call him.

Tell him.

Wait for him.

My fingers hovered over the screen.

Then stopped.

Slowly… I lowered my hand.

Habit.

That’s all it was.

A quiet, dangerous habit of reaching for someone who no longer reached back.

A breath slipped out of me—almost a laugh, if it didn’t sound so empty.

Then I stood.

Alone.

And walked toward the treatment room without looking back.

After the IV was done, I expected the strength to come back.

It didn’t.

Dizziness clung to me like humidity before a storm. I stepped out of the treatment room and nearly lost my footing, catching myself against the corridor wall.

Dominic still hadn’t come back.

No call. No message. Nothing.

For a moment, I hesitated—then reached for my phone anyway.

Habit.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Dominic,” I said quietly, steadying my voice. “I’m still at the clinic.”

A pause.

Then, “Celeste… I’m sorry. I meant to come back after I dropped Adeline off, but she wasn’t feeling well so I—”

A second voice cut in before he could finish.

A staff member, casual, unaware: “Sir, your meal’s ready. Should I bring it in or—?”

Silence.

A faint shuffle, like he’d covered the phone too late.

But I’d already heard enough.

A meal.

That’s what kept him.

Not urgency. Not something unavoidable.

Just… dinner.

“It’s fine,” I said before he could recover. My tone came out lighter than I felt. “I’ll head back on my own.”

“I’ll come later,” he said quickly. “Go home first. I’ll explain.”

Explain.

He always had an explanation.

As if explanations could fix something already broken.

“I’m good,” I said, and ended the call.

**

The drive back to the manor was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in from all sides.

That night, Dominic didn’t come home.

From my window, I could see the glow of celebration from one of our territories—music, fireworks, men drinking like there was something worth celebrating. Probably a deal closed. Or someone’s return.

I didn’t bother asking.

Sleep didn’t come.

So I worked.

Jewelry sketches spread across my desk—custom pieces commissioned by people who needed protection they couldn’t buy legally. Silver-threaded bracelets, hidden blades disguised as ornaments, rings with hollow compartments.

My hands moved on instinct.

Detached.

My tablet lit up beside me.

A notification.

Adeline.

A post from a private circle I wasn’t even supposed to have access to.

A photo of the skyline bursting with fireworks—our territory lit up like it belonged to her.

The caption read:

“After half a lifetime away, I come back to where I belong. And the city welcomes me like it never forgot.”

My eyes lingered longer than I expected.

That’s when I noticed it.

The account logged in on the tablet—

Dominic’s.

His private line.

Still open.

Still active.

For a long moment, I just stared at it.

Then I closed the app.

No anger.

No curiosity.

Just… no need to see more of what I already understood.

**

The next morning, I went to the workshop like nothing had changed.

The forewoman read my resignation letter twice before looking up at me.

“You’re really leaving?” she asked.

“I’m going home,” I said. “There’s an arrangement waiting.”

She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “We’re losing our best hands.”

I gave a small nod. “Thank you. For everything.”

Word spread fast.

By lunch, they insisted on a send-off.

We ended up at a familiar place near the old bridge—low lights, private booths, the kind of restaurant where deals were made over whiskey and silence.

Dominic had brought me here once.

Back when things felt… simpler.

Now it just felt like someone else’s memory.

Halfway through, I stepped outside for air.

The hallway was lined with dim lanterns and security cameras tucked into corners like quiet witnesses.

And then I saw her.

Adeline.

Standing there like she’d been expecting me.

Her smile was soft. Polished. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

I gave a polite nod and moved to pass.

She kept talking anyway.

“Dominic used to bring me here,” she said casually. “Back when we were younger. We came often.”

I paused.

Not because it mattered—

but because I didn’t feel the need to pretend it didn’t.

She stepped a little closer, studying me.

“I noticed something before,” she added.

I didn’t respond.

“When he prepares food for you,” she said, almost lightly, “he always rinses it first. Does that mean you don’t handle spice well either?”

Either.

The word landed quietly.

But it stayed.

I frowned slightly.

That didn’t make sense.

I liked spice. Always had.

But Dominic…

Every time he handled food for me, he’d rinse it. Carefully. Like it mattered.

He said it was better for me.

I never questioned it.

I thought it was care.

Now—

the memory shifted.

Just enough to hurt.

Because suddenly, I remembered something I’d never paid attention to before.

Adeline didn’t eat spice.

And Dominic had learned her preferences long before he ever learned mine.

Adeline’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer—slow, deliberate, like she already knew how this would end.

Then she tilted her head, the corridor lights catching in her hair.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said softly, almost kind. “Don’t you think… we look alike, little sister?”

Little sister.

Not a rival. Not even a threat.

Just a replacement that stayed too long.

Heat rushed to my face—sharp, humiliating. The hallway suddenly felt too tight, the air too thin.

She was still smiling.

I couldn’t stand it.

So I turned and walked away before I said something I couldn’t take back.

**

Back inside, the noise of my colleagues filled the room—laughter, glasses clinking, the low hum of people who didn’t know anything had shifted.

It didn’t fix anything.

But it dulled the edge.

For a while, I sat with them, pretending I was still untouched by all of it.

Then the door opened.

The sound cut clean through the room.

Dominic stood there.

For a second, he didn’t move. His eyes scanned the space—faces, exits, instincts first—before landing on me.

Something in his expression changed.

Not relief.

Not concern.

Anger.

Tight. Controlled. Already decided.

“Celeste.”

My name didn’t sound like mine.

Before I could answer, he stepped back into the hallway.

“Outside.”

I hesitated for half a second.

Then I followed.

The moment I crossed the door—

His hand struck my face.

Hard.

The impact snapped my head to the side, the sound echoing against the narrow corridor.

Silence followed.

It was the first time Dominic Hale had ever hit me.

I looked at him, stunned, my cheek burning where his hand had been.

He didn’t look away.

No regret. No hesitation.

Just anger.

“Why did you push Adeline?” His voice was low, controlled, but edged. “She twisted her ankle. I told you I’d handle it when I got back, and you still chose to act like that?”

My breath caught.

Push?

“What are you talking about?” I said, barely above a whisper.

Footsteps approached.

Adeline.

She came into view slowly, careful, unsteady—like every step mattered. Her sleeve was slightly stained, her posture fragile.

And then—

she stumbled.

A perfect fall.

Dominic moved instantly.

He brushed past me like I wasn’t even there and caught her before she hit the ground.

Like it was instinct.

Like it had always been her.

“I told you I’d bring her to you,” he said, his voice already softer as he held her. “Why did you come out here alone?”

Adeline shook her head gently against him. “It’s nothing serious. She probably didn’t mean it.”

Her eyes flicked to mine.

Brief.

Precise.

Then away.

“I’m fine,” she added. “Don’t be too hard on her.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—carefully placed: “If Garrick hears about this… it might complicate things.”

At my brother’s name, something in Dominic’s expression shifted.

Just for a second.

Then it hardened again.

“She’s Garrick’s sister,” he said flatly. “He trusted me with her. If she’s out of line, it’s my responsibility to correct it.”

Correct me.

I let out a small laugh before I could stop myself.

It sounded wrong. Hollow.

“Correct me?” I repeated. “What exactly did I do wrong, Dominic?”

He turned to me fully now, eyes sharp.

“You knew there were no cameras in that hallway,” he said coldly. “So you thought you could get away with it.”

For a moment, I almost didn’t recognize him.

Not because it hurt—

but because of how easy it was for him to believe it.

“If there were no cameras,” I asked slowly, “how are you so sure it was me?”

Adeline shifted slightly in his arms, her voice soft.

“Why would I lie?” she said. “You think I’d accuse you for no reason?”

Dominic didn’t even look at her.

He was still staring at me.

“I’ve known Adeline since we were kids,” he said. “She doesn’t lie.”

A beat.

Then—

“And you do?”

Something in me went completely still.

Seven years.

Seven years—and this was what I was worth next to her.

My voice came out quieter than I expected.

“So that’s it?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The silence said enough.

I turned away.

“Celeste.” His voice sharpened. “Stop.”

I didn’t.

My cheek still burned. My chest felt… empty. Like something had been pulled out without me noticing when it left.

At the front, I didn’t go back inside.

Didn’t explain.

I paid the bill in cash, left a message with the staff for my colleagues, and scribbled a quick note on a receipt:

Something came up. Continue without me. It’s on me.

Then I walked out into the night alone.