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.

He had once been the kind of man who labeled every medicine bottle with its date and purpose, afraid that if he wasn’t home, Brittany would be too clueless to take care of herself.

But that care, that concern, it had nothing to do with her anymore.

Now, she sat in the dim glow of the living room, patching up her wounds alone.

The pain wasn’t just in her injuries. It was everywhere. It was in the way she stared at the handwriting on those old bottles, in the way she bit her lip to stop the tears from falling.

For years, she had lived in his shadow, believing she mattered.

How pathetic.

Just as the tears threatened to slip, a blinding light sliced through the darkness, striking her eyes.

"Brittany."

She turned her head sharply.

Theresa stood there, phone flashlight in hand, her gaze unreadable.

"We need to talk."

Her lips were swollen, her flushed skin marred with faint scratches. And on her neck, undeniable proof of intimacy.

Brittany’s heart twisted. Of course. They were engaged. How could they not be doing those things?

Theresa tilted her head, watching her reaction.

"I know you blame me for sending you away, for taking Weston from you. Isn’t that right?"

A sharp tremor ran through Brittany’s body.

Theresa’s lips curled as she reached for her hand.

"But you need to understand—there was never a future for you two. Not just because he’s your brother, but because a man like him has no patience for little girls playing pretend."

Brittany felt the air leave her lungs.

"Stop talking," she whispered, her voice unsteady, trembling.

But Theresa had no intention of stopping.

"Weston and I are equals, in background, in capability. But you?" She tilted her head, her smile laced with cruelty. "You’re just the orphan the family took in. Don’t waste your time coveting what isn’t yours. Girls who think that way end up locked in places like that."

She laughed, carefree, unbothered by the way Brittany’s eyes burned red.

Her body shook, but after everything, after the hospital, after the silent suffering, she was too weak to fight back.

And wasn’t Theresa just telling the truth?

"When summer ends, Weston and I will send you to a boarding university abroad." She sighed as if she were offering a favor. "It’s time you learned independence. Do you have any idea how repulsed he is by your feelings?"

Brittany’s breath hitched.

She looked up only to meet Theresa’s indifferent gaze, her smile unbearably cruel.

"I told you to stop!"

A raw, fractured scream shattered the silence.

It was as if she had gone mad after leaving that place.

Having the truth she fought to bury ripped open by the very woman who had stolen everything from her.

Like a wound barely scabbed over, torn apart once more.

Brittany shoved Theresa’s hand away.

She didn’t resist. Her back hit the coffee table, sending the thermos crashing to the floor. Hot water splashed across the hardwood, hissing as it met the cold air.

"What the hell are you two doing?"

Weston’s voice cut through the tension.

He stepped out, frowning, eyes dark with displeasure.

Then he saw Theresa. His pupils contracted.

Before Brittany could react, he had already brushed past her, reaching for Theresa’s hand.

"What happened?" His voice dropped, concern laced in every syllable.

The once flawless skin on her hand was flushed red, scalded by the spilled water. Against her pale complexion, it stood out like an accusation.

"I’m fine." Theresa let out a soft, helpless sigh. "I heard Brittany’s footsteps and wanted to comfort her. I suppose I was too hasty... I forgot she still hasn’t fully accepted me."

Only then did Weston turn to Brittany.

The warmth, the tenderness that once filled his gaze, was gone.

In its place, only cold disappointment.

It was as if he already knew. As if the truth didn’t matter, this was just a formality.

"Brittany, apologize."

The security cameras were right there. Yet he wouldn’t check them.

He wouldn’t even listen.

Of course, he wouldn’t. That was just the way he was.

Once Weston made up his mind, nothing could change it.

Once, he had decided she was his beloved sister, the one he spoiled beyond reason.

Now, he had decided Theresa was the center of his world.

And no one else was allowed to come close.