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.

Hiding the bloodstains on her palm behind her back, Brittany lifted her gaze to Weston. Her eyes were hollow, stripped of warmth, yet her lips curved into a mechanical smile, lifeless, like a doll going through the motions.

"Sorry, sister-in-law. I only wanted a glass of water. I didn’t realize you were behind me." She tilted her head slightly, voice light, almost indifferent. "It’s a habit I picked up in the psychiatric hospital. I get a little nervous when someone touches me out of nowhere."

Theresa stiffened, her expression flickering.

Brittany reached for the ointment and bandages beside her, then stepped forward.

"I’ll help you apply the medicine. Will you forgive me, sister-in-law?"

The room fell silent.

Her surrender was too smooth, too easy, wrecking whatever performance Theresa had planned.

Even Weston sensed something was off. His grip closed around Brittany’s wrist.

"What exactly are you trying to do?"

Trying to do?

Was she the one behaving strangely?

Hadn’t they told her that as long as she was obedient, they wouldn’t send her back?

She had played by their rules, careful not to step out of line, yet Weston still looked at her with discontent.

As if no matter what she did, it would never be enough.

Brittany lowered her gaze, ignoring him entirely. Without hesitation, she yanked her wrist free and, with unsettling ease, took Theresa’s injured palm in her grasp. Her fingers moved with practiced precision, securing the bandage as though she had done it a thousand times before.

Weston only noticed the blood on her hand after she had finished.

His expression flickered, brief, almost imperceptible, but she caught it. A muscle in his jaw tightened.

Yet all he did was ask, as if out of obligation.

"What happened to your hand?"

For a fleeting moment, he almost sounded like the brother she once knew.

"Did you hurt yourself just now, too?"

Theresa’s fingers curled against her palm, her sharp gaze a silent warning.

But Brittany didn’t need the reminder. She already knew.

The truth was pointless.

Everything had been too precise, too well-timed as if orchestrated from the start. Weston had already chosen his side, and she refused to humiliate herself further.

"It has nothing to do with you, brother." Her voice was calm, detached. She gathered the leftover ointment and bandages, turning toward the attic. "I was just careless."

Weston wanted to say more, but he stopped the moment he stepped forward.

Brittany didn’t need to look back. She already knew.

Theresa must have stopped him.

That woman loathed her, saw her as a threat, framed her time and time again, and stole everything she once had.

Brittany despised her.

Yet, she had to admit. She was right.

She and Weston were destined to drift further and further apart.

That night, Brittany dreamed.

She was back in the psychiatric hospital, sitting alone in a stark, empty room, pretending she belonged there.

The doctor, once kind, had stepped out to take a call. But when he returned, his face had changed, and his voice was clipped and impersonal.

"Miss, we’ve assessed your condition. Cases like yours are quite common."

His words rang hollow, yet the judgment behind them was suffocating.

"A life of indulgence makes people like you forget propriety… and shame."

Brittany wanted to refute him, to claw her way out of the nightmare. But in the dream, she was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to speak.

"Propriety and shame… How could you fall in love with your brother?" His tone was laced with scorn. "A young lady should have self-respect. Some dignity. Do you understand?"

The ridicule coiled around her like a noose.

There was no physical pain, yet each accusation tore at her, stripping away the last remnants of her dignity, piece by piece.

Brittany’s eyes fluttered open.

She had spent the entire night awake, lying in the suffocating silence, waiting for morning to come.

Before the sky brightened, she pulled on a coat and stepped out of the villa, the crisp air swallowing her whole. Her path was set by the Civil Affairs Bureau.

The first step to severing the past was to cast off the name that tethered her to it.

Weston had made it clear, she was nothing to him now. Not a sister. Not anything at all.

But the years she spent in his family’s home had been real. His parents had loved her and cared for her. That much, at least, had been true.

For a decade, she had carried the name Beverleigh It had sunk into her skin and stitched itself into her identity.

And in those cold, sleepless nights at the psychiatric hospital, she had asked herself, was she truly ready to let it go?

Now, she had her answer.