“No,” I whisper. “The only thing I lied about was to protect you. You were unraveling, Gustav. And I’m not my mother.”
He searches my face, and I see the war there. Betrayal. Recognition. Something wounded under the anger. He releases my neck, but the loss of his hand doesn’t make me feel safer.It just makes the room feel bigger. Emptier. Like he could disappear or explode at any second.
He turns away sharply and goes back to the envelope. His movements are jerky now, no longer controlled. He reaches inside and pulls out the second stack.
Photographs.
A sick dread slithers through me.
He flips through them quickly at first, perhaps bracing himself for more letters, but then something snags. Stops him. His breath stutters. His fingers tremble around the glossy edges. One photo slips from his hand and drifts to the floor.
“Gustav?” My voice comes out too quiet.
He doesn’t answer.
He braces his palm on the desk, shoulders bowing forward, and the rest of the pictures flutter from his hand to the rug in a scattered, damning trail.
I kneel and grab the nearest one.
My heart drops so violently I swear the room tilts.
Me.
And Brutus.
Standing beside the trunk of a car at St. Andrews. The day Keira took that photo. Except in this one, Brutus is leaning in. His mouth on mine. His hand gripping my waist. My fingers tangled in his hair like I’m pulling him closer.
None of it is real. None of it happened. But the image looks real. Rupert’s work, no doubt.
I scramble for the next one. And the next. All of them the same. Different angles. Different moments. Me kissing Brutus behind a stone archway. Me pressed against him beside a greenhouse. His hand sliding under my shirt. My head thrown back in pleasure that never existed. My throat closes and my eyes burn.
“This isn’t—” My voice cracks. “Gustav, these are fake. AI or something. They’re altered.”
But when I lift my head, ready to plead, the space in front of me is empty.
He is gone.
Shit.
The room feels suddenly colder, as if the shadows grew teeth. A single raven croaks outside the window, loud and sharp. Another joins it. Then another. Their cries build, echoing down the stone corridors and vibrating through the floorboards.
Panic spikes. I lunge to my feet and run.
“Gustav!” My voice bounces off the hallway walls.
No answer.
I sprint down the corridor, clutching the photos in shaking hands, my breath sharp in my throat. “Gustav, wait! Please!”
Another raven screams from somewhere above. Another on the balcony. The air hums with their agitation, like they are warning me.
He must be spiraling. He must be falling back into whatever dark place his mother built inside him, and I put him there. Not because I lied. Not because of Brutus. But because I am the daughter of the woman who destroyed his family.
The voices will be loud.
He will be breaking.
Alone.
