Hawthorne House hums with silence, the kind that presses against your chest until it hurts. You’re sitting with Avery in the library, but the moment tilts, memory flooding back in waves, and suddenly she’s there. Emily Laughlin.

She looks the same as she did that last summer—hair like spun gold, green eyes daring you to look away, lips curved into a smile that was equal parts promise and threat. She slides into the chair beside you, like she never left, and the air turns colder, heavier.

“You didn’t think you could forget me, did you?” she whispers, her voice all honey and glass.

The past crashes over you—bonfires on the cliffs, her laughter echoing, her hands twined with yours. “Jump with me,” she had said once, standing on the edge, wind tangling her hair. “What’s life without a little risk?” You’d jumped, of course. Everyone always did what Emily asked.

Then another memory: Jameson leaning too close, Grayson watching with storm in his eyes, Emily at the center of it all, thriving in the chaos. “Don’t make me choose,” she’d teased one night, head thrown back, that sharp smile daring anyone to walk away.

Now she leans closer, her perfume—jasmine and salt—wrapping around you like a noose. “You’ll never stop loving me,” she says, quiet but certain, as if it’s not a question but a curse.

And the worst part? She’s right.

because truly you aren't much different than your brothers.