Now, she had surrendered everything to Theresa without protest. And still, he called her unreasonable.

Maybe, when she uttered those fateful words, Weston had stopped seeing her as his sister.

In his eyes, she had become just another woman trying to worm her way into his life, no different from the others who shamelessly pursued him.

Yet no matter how much she tried to move forward, her heart clung to the past, especially that room.

Back then, after their parents’ accident, nightmares had gripped her night after night.

When they moved, Weston had their rooms placed side by side, separated by nothing but a thin wall. At night, he could hear her breathing as if they were lying inches apart.

He had been building his empire back then, drowning in endless work.

Yet no matter how late he returned, he always found time to sit by her bed, watching over her until sleep claimed her.

Maybe they had been too close. Even the designer had chuckled, "Since you’re a couple, why not just live together?"

Brittany had flushed red, ready to deny it. But Weston had only taken her hand, his voice calm, and said there was no need.

That stolen moment of warmth, of unspoken promise, had been enough to make her heart race for years.

And now, that room had found its true owner.

She smiled, elegant and unshaken. "I was never unreasonable. That room was always meant for my sister-in-law."

Weston paused for a beat before taking her luggage. "As long as you understand."

The sunlight caught the diamond ring on his hand, its brilliance slicing through her like an unforgiving blade.

Was it because he loved Theresa so much that he couldn’t wait another second to marry her?

Or was it because he found Brittany so unbearable that he wanted to sever all ties without hesitation?

Whatever the reason, her dignity had long crumbled to dust.

A bitter taste spread across her tongue, sinking deep into her heart.

‘Then when I leave, I hope you’ll finally be happy.’

"Brittany."

Just as they reached the entrance, his voice cut through the silence, calling her name in full.

"Theresa is now the mistress of this house. From now on, everything here will revolve around her. I hope after this past month, you've learned your lesson. Don’t act like a spoiled child who disrespects her elders."

He actually said… she had no manners.

So, he did love Theresa that much.

Once, he had cradled her like something fragile, as if the slightest touch might shatter her.

Now, all the pain she had endured was nothing more than a lesson in his eyes.

But did he really not know why she had lost her temper back then?

Ever since she was a child, music has been her dream. She had spent years watching him compose, studying every note and rhythm. And in secret, she had written a love song just for him.

A month ago, the day after Theresa stepped down as her psychiatrist, Weston’s twenty-sixth birthday was just around the corner.

She had spent the entire day preparing, carefully setting up every decoration. Every penny she had saved over the years, she spent on a tie for him, a small token of affection chosen with care.

But after that ill-fated confession, Weston did nothing except hire a psychiatrist for her. No reaction, no response, just cold, clinical distance.

So, she decided to treat it as a fleeting mistake. Something best left behind.

She had written that song for him, not as a confession, but as a way to share a piece of her heart. A melody woven with her purest emotions. Then, she would remain by his side as his sister.

At least that way, she could tell herself she had no regrets.

But that night, she waited. And waited. The dishes on the table turned cold, untouched, and he never walked through the door.

Just as she reached for her phone, ready to call the police in a panic, a notification lit up her screen.

[A Rising Star in Music. The Genius Composer’s Perfect Match.]

Her fingers trembled as she tapped on it.

The photo said more than words ever could.

Weston. Theresa. Side by side. Smiling like they had the entire world in their hands.

Theresa clung to his arm, leaning into him as if they had belonged together all along.

A loud bang echoed through the room as her phone slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor. The screen lit up upon impact, accidentally playing a video.

A sweet, familiar voice poured out.

Theresa’s voice.

But the song, that was hers.

A love song she had poured her heart into, every lyric laced with the dreams and stolen moments she had shared with Weston. She had tucked it away beneath her pillow, never telling a soul.

Except that night. The night she got drunk and, in a haze of foolish courage, sang it for him.

Back then, she hadn’t understood why Weston had pushed her away. But now, she did.

He had wanted her to surrender. To understand that song had never belonged to her in the first place.

A bitter smile curled her lips.

"Brother, I will listen to you."

She had never called him that before. Never. She had always used his name.

But this… this was fine. Maybe it had always been meant to be this way.

Without so much as a glance, Weston pushed open the door.

And just like that, a bright, cheerful figure threw herself into his arms.

"Weston, look! What do you think of this dress for the wedding gown?"

Theresa’s face was flawless, framed by wisps of smoky makeup that accentuated her bright, adoring gaze. The wedding dress she wore was breathtaking, pure white silk cascading to the floor, its surface glimmering with diamonds that caught the light in a way that felt almost cruel.

She acted as though Brittany wasn’t even there, completely wrapped up in the euphoria of love.

It wasn’t until Weston cleared his throat that Theresa finally turned, feigning surprise.

"Oh! Brittany, sorry—I didn’t know you were coming back today."

She offered an awkward smile before playfully nudging Weston’s back. He responded with nothing but a soft, doting smile.

Brittany’s fingers curled at her sides.

That dress. She knew it well.

Because she had designed it.

The first time Theresa had stepped foot into this house, she had told Brittany that her feelings were unnatural, a disgrace, something that should never see the light of day.

Theresa had her sketch out her dream wedding dress, urging her to pretend she was wearing it and imagine, just once, marrying Weston.

And Brittany, naïve and desperate, had done exactly that.

Now, standing before her, Theresa was wearing that dream as if it had belonged to her all along.

And all Brittany knew was that it was truly a sight to behold, like a dream stitched in silk and lace.

There was no anger, no resentment, only a soft, almost imperceptible smile as if this was merely the natural course of things.

"Brittany, why aren’t you saying anything? Do you not like me wearing this dress? If so, I’ll take it off right away."

Theresa’s voice was sweet and hesitant, her fingers already reaching up as if ready to strip away the gown at the slightest disapproval.

Weston’s expression darkened. "Brittany, your sister-in-law is talking to you."

Brittany lifted her eyes, her gaze steady and unreadable.

For a moment, Weston felt something unfamiliar stir inside him.

By the time he registered it, she had already moved.

Silently, she stepped behind Theresa, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the tangled dress ties. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement, only quiet precision as she secured the loosened straps, pulling the gown into its intended shape.

"This is how the dress should be worn."

Weston watched her, his unease growing.

Something about her had shifted.

Gone was the fragile girl who once let her emotions flicker across her face. Now, she stood before him like a stranger, poised and distant, as if she had walked away from her past and never looked back.

Had the hospital truly changed her so completely?

He had only wanted to discipline her, to make her understand.

"Brittany, you—"

"Ah!"

Theresa’s scream shattered the moment, sharp and sudden.

The strap in Brittany’s hands was suddenly yanked, snapping apart with a sharp crack.

A breath later, the fabric at the back of the wedding dress tore open.

Theresa, caught entirely off guard, let out a startled gasp as she lost her balance, toppling straight to the ground.

She landed hard, a pained whimper escaping her lips. Faint bruises bloomed almost instantly on her delicate wrist and calf.

Tears welled up in her eyes, her shoulders trembling as she choked out soft, pitiful sobs.

"Weston… my wedding dress…"

"It’s okay, it’s okay. If the dress is ruined, we’ll just make a new one. I never really liked that design anyway. It barely did justice to even a fraction of your beauty."

Yet even as he spoke softly to Theresa, his eyes lifted, dark with anger, fixing Brittany with a glare that left no room for doubt.

Disappointment. Blame. A silent accusation that cut deeper than words.

Brittany knew that no matter what she said, it would be useless.

A beauty shedding tears, Weston would never spare her a glance, let alone a shred of mercy.

"Sorry, sister-in-law."

The words scraped her throat, dry and hollow. Behind her back, her fingers clenched, pressing against the ribbon-cut wound on her palm, where blood had already begun to bead.

She returned to the attic alone.

The layout was identical to her original room, down to the neatly arranged photos lining the walls, snapshots of a past she had once cherished. Pictures of her and Weston, spanning childhood to now, each one painstakingly restored by his own hands.

Her lashes fluttered closed for a brief moment. Then, one by one, she tore them down.

Weston had already found his true family. Even if she vanished from his world without a trace, it wouldn’t cause the slightest ripple.

Would he feel sad? Would he ever think of the disgusting little sister he had cast aside in the midst of his blissful life with Theresa?

Probably not.

Since he had never belonged to her, neither the song nor the wedding dress nor this room held any meaning anymore.

With a single sweep of her hand, the photos tumbled into the trash.

Just then, her phone rang.

"Brittany! Mom and Dad already booked our tickets. We’ll be there to pick you up in five days! How’s your stay at the Beverleighs? Are they treating you well? They keep insisting Weston takes great care of you, but if he did, would he have thrown you into a psychiatric hospital…?"

"Brother, it’s fine. It was my problem. Back then, I was sick."

Dominic fell silent.

"Anyway," she added lightly, "once you’re back, I’ll be moving out."

"Yes! Yes! The moment we return, we’re bringing you home!"

A faint smile tugged at her lips. His anxious yet excited voice stirred something in her chest, a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.

These past few days, her real parents had also called her frequently. Even before their reunion, they had already transferred several properties under her name.

"Who are you talking to?"

A deep, sullen voice cut through the air.

Brittany turned, startled. At some point, the door had been pushed open. Weston stood against the wall, his expression dark, his gaze locked onto her like a predator catching its prey.

Brittany pressed her lips together, offering no response.

But Weston didn’t seem to care.

In just a few strides, he was in front of her, his grip firm as he caught her chin and forced her gaze to his. His eyes were cold, sharp.

"Brittany, didn’t I tell you not to hurt her? She’s not like you."

Yet the moment he saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, his tone softened.

"As long as you admit your mistake and change, I can pretend none of this ever happened. You will always be my sister."

He had once indulged her, shielded her from everything. No matter what she did, he was always on her side.

But Brittany understood now she was no longer the one he cherished.

He wasn’t defending her. He wasn’t even listening. He was only protecting the woman he loved.

So she simply nodded.

Weston, ever meticulous, never once noticed the wound on her palm as he walked away.

A message notification chimed.

Brittany struggled to pick up her phone. Another message from her brother.

[Brittany, the housekeeper’s daughter, is also in Evermist. Dad and Mom have always treated her well since she was little. If you’re not comfortable staying there, I can have her come take care of you.]

A helpless smile tugged at her lips.

[No need, Brother.]

Two hours later, she stepped out of her room.

The house was steeped in darkness, the lights long extinguished. Relying on memory, she navigated her way toward the living room, careful with every step.

As she passed by Weston and Theresa’s room, she instinctively slowed, barely daring to breathe.

If he saw her, he would only assume the worst, that she was putting on an act, using self-inflicted wounds to gain sympathy.

She knew him too well.

The shelves in the living room were still lined with bottles of medicine, silent relics of the past, when she had been weak, frail. When Weston had once bought them for her with his own hands.