"Yeah." My voice comes out quieter than I want it to.
"Bane." He doesn't offer his hand. Just stands there, close enough that I have to tilt my head back slightly to meet his eyes, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woody, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Margot's son."
"Yeah."
He nods slowly, like he's confirming something to himself.
"Look," he says, voice flat. "I'm going to be straight with you. This whole thing—" He gestures vaguely toward the reception. One hand rising and falling, dismissive. "—is what it is. Dad's happy. Good for him. But don't get any ideas about us all playing perfect blended family."
"I wasn't—" I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a look.
"You're an outsider, Carter. That's just a fact.” He takes a step closer. Crowding me. “No offense, but we're not looking toadd another brother to the mix. So keep your distance, stay out of our way, and we'll all get along fine."
The words are delivered without malice. Just cold, hard honesty.
"Understood," I say quietly. My hands curl into fists at my sides. Nails digging into my palms.
"Good." He moves toward the door, then pauses.His shoulder nearly touches mine. I can feel the heat radiating off him. "Nothing personal. It's just how it is."
He brushes past me, shoulder checking mine just enough to make his point. Hard enough that I stumble slightly. Hard enough that it's deliberate.
I stand there, pulse racing, hammering in my throat, in my ears, hands curled into fists.
Three brothers.
Three walls I'm going to have to climb.
Fuck.
The rest of the reception blurs together.
I dance with Margot because she asks and I can't say no. She leads because I don't know how, her hand warm in mine, guiding me through steps I barely manage. Richard makes a toast that's sweet and genuine, and people clap. The sound echoes, too loud, making me flinch. The cake is cut. Vanilla with raspberry filling, too sweet on my tongue. Champagne flows. I drink more than I should. The bubbles make my head feel light, detached.
I smile when I'm supposed to smile.
I laugh when I'm supposed to laugh. Even though nothing's funny. Even though my face hurts from the effort.
I play the part.
But inside, I'm counting down the minutes until I can leave. Watching the clock on the wall. Watching the sun set.Watching the crowd thin as people make their excuses and slip away into the night.
When Margot and Richard finally say their goodbyes—they're leaving for a honeymoon in Italy tomorrow—Margot pulls me aside. Her hand on my elbow, gentle but insistent, leading me away from the crowd.
"You okay, sweetheart?" She cups my face with both hands, tilting my head so I have to meet her eyes.
"I'm fine." The lie is automatic. Practiced.
She gives me that look. The one that says she knows I'm lying but won't push. Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone. Soft. Sad.
"The boys can be... intense," she says. "Give them time."
"Yeah."
"I love you." Her palms are warm. Her eyes are bright with tears she won't shed. "Nothing changes that."
"I love you too."
She kisses my forehead—her lips soft, lingering, like she's trying to leave some part of herself with me—and lets me go.
