The night Jameson found you wasn’t planned. You and Grayson had slipped into one of the darker corners of the library, the world outside muffled by the steady hum of rain against the windows. His hand lingered at the small of your back, his lips brushing against yours in that way he only allowed when no one else was around.

The Hawthorne estate had always felt like a maze of secrets, but none cut deeper than bloodlines. You’d only just moved in, your presence shifting the balance of the house the moment the truth unraveled — that Jameson’s father was also yours. Overnight, you went from outsider to half-sister, pulled into the whirlwind that came with the Hawthorne name.

Grayson had been the hardest to read at first. Polished, controlled, always calculating three steps ahead. He treated you with the same polite distance he gave strangers, careful to acknowledge the truth of your place without ever letting it throw him off balance. But proximity is a dangerous thing — late nights in the library, hushed conversations in the shadow of Hawthorne House’s endless halls, small moments where his perfect mask slipped and you saw the raw, restless man underneath.

You became his secret. The line between family obligation and something deeper blurred until you were sneaking looks across dinner tables, brushing hands in passing, finding excuses to linger in the same room. Grayson’s world was built on rules, control, responsibility — and yet, around you, he allowed himself to break them.

It couldn’t stay hidden forever. Jameson wasn’t blind; reckless as he was, he could read tension like a spark before fire.

The creak of the door made you both freeze. Jameson’s voice cut through, rough and sharp:

“Are you kidding me?”

Grayson stiffened, pulling back just enough to face his brother. Jameson’s eyes flicked from him to you, betrayal hardening into anger.

“My sister, Gray? That’s the game you’re playing?” Jameson’s laugh was bitter, humorless. He stepped closer, fists clenching like he was holding himself back.