"I didn't tell them it was Knox," I whisper into my palms. "I couldn't. I saw the way they looked at him when we were kids, the 'troubled' boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Your best friend. They hated that you brought him around. When theycornered me in that study, demanding a name… I panicked. And Jace’s name came out of my mouth because I knew what they’d do with it. I knew it would stop them.”
Griffin freezes. He drops to his knees in front of me, his hands gripping my shoulders. "Sierra. Look at me."
I lift my head, my eyes swimming with tears.
"The baby," Griffin rasps, his face pale. "The one you lost right after the wedding. You’re telling me that baby wasn't Jace’s? That it was Knox’s?"
I nod my head and a sob escapes me, the truth finally breaking through. "I let Jace believe the baby was his because I was too much of a coward to be shunned by our parents. I watched him step up, watched him take on the role of becoming a father with so much pride, all while I was hiding the truth about who really belonged in that role. I let him carry grief that shouldn’t have been tangled up in a lie. I let him mourn a baby believing one version of the truth, while I was drowning in another."
The silence that follows is deafening. Griffin looks like I’ve punched him in the gut. He’s the bridge between these worlds, he loves me, but Knox is the brother of his soul.
Griffin’s eyes close, and he leans his forehead against the cool surface of the kitchen cabinet. "God, Sierra. Do you have any idea how many times Knox has talked about wanting a family? About how he wanted to be the kind of father he never had? He’s been looking forward to that his whole life. To having someone of his own to protect. And you let him believe he was just theguy who wasn't 'good enough' to stay in your circle while another man was grieving his child."
Griffin drops down in front of me, one knee hitting the floor. His hands come to my face, firm but not rough, forcing me to look at him. "You let him walk around with that hole in his chest, Sia. You let him believe something that wasn’t real."
The weight of his stare is too much. I can’t breathe, let alone answer. After a long, tense moment, Griffin’s hands drop from my shoulders. He paces the small length of my kitchen, his jaw tight, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. I stay frozen by the counter, the silence of the apartment feeling like it’s suffocating me. I expect him to yell, to tell me he's going straight to Knox.
But when he finally turns back, the slight anger in his eyes has been replaced by that familiar, weary sorrow. He looks at me and sees the same girl who used to hide in his room when the shouting started downstairs. He sees the raw skin on my fingers and the way I’m trembling, and his posture sags.
Griffin doesn't pull away instead he pulls me closer, rocking me like he did when we were children and I’d scraped my knees. "It’s a mess, Sia. A beautiful, tragic mess."
"Don't tell him," I beg, clutching at his shirt. "Please, Griffin. If Knox finds out, he’ll hate me forever. If Jace finds out... I’ve already taken enough from him. Just let me keep this one thing."
Griffin stays quiet for a long time. I can feel the war raging inside him. He hates to lie, but he loves his sister. Finally, he exhales a shaky breath. "I won't tell anyone. Not yet. But you can't keepliving like this, scrubbing floors until your fingers bleed to hide the guilt. Our parents aren't here, Sierra. You don't have to be their pawn anymore."
He stays with me until the sun starts to set, but even his presence can't wash away the images in my mind.
I think about the time I found him down by the ravine, huddled against an oak tree, with a black eye and his face already swelling, his eyes fixed on the ground like if he didn’t look up, the world might leave him alone.
I didn’t ask what happened. I just sat beside him and pressed a small silver locket into his palm. Something I’d stolen from my mother’s vanity because it looked strong, because it felt like a shield.
“It’s a protection charm,” I told him.
He believed me. He wore it under his shirt for years. I wonder if he still has it, or if he tucked it away in a box of things he wants to forget.
That was the first time I understood that I wanted to be the thing that kept the world from breaking him.
I just didn’t know yet that the world he’d need protecting from would eventually include my father.
Or me.
I gave him a piece of my heart as a kid, and then I stole a piece of his life when we were adults. I let him believe his legacy ended before it even began.
After Griffin leaves, I walk to my small desk. There’s a stack of mail from our mother, delivered by her driver earlier today. It’s a thick, cream-colored envelope, the kind she uses when she’s being particularly official.
Inside, there are no words of comfort. Instead, there’s a short, clipped note on her personal stationery:Since you chose to ignore our advice and failed to rectify your standing with Jace, we must now move into the next phase to keep appearances up. Your father and I will not have this family’s name dragged through a messy public divorce.
Tucked behind the note are "social recovery" plans, lists of gala dates and charity auctions I am expected to attend, all designed to show the town I’m unbothered by the divorce. She’s already curated my public image for the next six months, treating my life like a brand that needs a pivot rather than a heart that’s been shattered.
I pick up a pen. My hand is steady, a product of years of training. I start to write a 'thank you' note to a woman I don't even like, because that’s what a Carter woman does.
I will go to the parties. I will wear the expensive dresses. I will play the part.
And I will keep the secret of the baby I lost—the baby that would’ve had Knox’s eyes and my father’s curse—until it eventually buries me.
The pen scratches against the heavy cardstock, the sound unnervingly loud in the vacuum of the kitchen.Dear Mother, thank you for the itinerary. I will ensure my schedule is clear for the botanical garden gala.
Every loop of the letters feels like a lie. My handwriting is perfect, elegant, slanted, and entirely devoid of the soul-crushing exhaustion pulling at my limbs. I wonder if she’d even recognize my real voice anymore, or if she only hears the echoes of the girl she polished into a mirror.
