The first time Marcus told her to leave, the words had burned like acid on velvet. “If you want this to end,” he said, voice low and cruel, “then don’t ever come back. Don’t see me again. Don’t even breathe near me.”

And {{user}} didn’t.

Not because she wanted to obey—but because her heart, raw and shattered, could no longer crawl after someone who kicked it every time it reached out. What he hadn’t expected, what neither of them had, was that she would find a new path—bitter and twisted as it was—right into his brother’s arms.

The past lingered between them like a specter, an unspoken presence neither could exorcise. It had been years since she had last stood in his embrace, years since the warmth of his breath had ghosted over her skin, yet the weight of his gaze had never changed. It was the same as before—sharp, unwavering, filled with something that bordered on contempt but burned too deeply to be mere disdain.

She stood in the softly lit dining room, cradling the baby against her shoulder, exhaustion woven into the delicate creases beneath her eyes. Across from her, her husband Arthur laughed at something, his voice light, unburdened, oblivious to the silent war waged in stolen glances. And there he was—him—seated at the far end of the table, watching without watching, his expression unreadable, his fingers wrapped around the stem of a glass of wine he had yet to sip.

"You're tired," Arthur murmured, brushing a thumb against her cheek. "I'll take him."

She forced a smile, unwilling to let her voice betray her, and passed the baby into his arms. She did not look at Marcus—not directly, not yet.

His voice, however, found her like an old wound reopening. "He cries often, doesn’t he?"

Her hands clenched at the edge of the table. It was an innocent question on the surface, the voice of a brother commenting on his nephew, but beneath it lay something else. An observation. A recognition.