"I think you're exhausted and emotionally compromised." His voice was gentle but clinical. "Sleep deprivation affects memory consolidation. Your brain's been in survival mode for weeks. Memory gets weird when you're running on fumes."

  "It's possible you read this entry before, but your brain didn't file it properly," Gwen added.

  The words slapped me like a physical blow because they were true.

  "You really think I should see Dr. Chen?"

  "I think you deserve support," Atticus said. "Professional support. Someone who knows how to help you through this."

  "And the journals?"

  "Keep reading if they brings you comfort," Micah said. "But maybe try to balance that with other things. Your art. Your career. Your life."

  "What if I can't? What if I try to draw and there's nothing there?"

  "Then you try again the next day," Gwen said. "And the day after that. Until something comes back."

  "And if nothing does?"

  "Then we figure something else out," Atticus promised. "But Morgan, you'll never know if you don't try."

  Later that afternoon, my phone buzzed. I'd been ignoring it for days—weeks, really—but something made me glance at the screen. Twelve unread messages. I scrolled through them, each one a small punch to the chest.

  Devon: Morgan, I know you probably won't read this, but I'm here if you need me. We can fly back anytime. Just say the word. Love you, babe.

  Me: I'm okay. Thank you. Give Adam a hug for me.

  The two of them had flown back for the funeral, stayed a week, but I'd barely registered their presence.

  Miriam: Sweet girl, the co-op is still standing. Lance made sure of that. But it needs you. We all need you. Take your time, but don't forget you have a family here. The woman who'd owned the co-op before Lance bought it for me. She still came by weekly, checking on things, making sure I had a place to come back to.

  Jasmine: Boss lady, we miss your face around here. No rush, just wanted you to know we're holding down the fort.

  Chloe: Thinking of you, Morgan. Your workspace is exactly how you left it.

  Adele Beekman: Morgan darling, I know you're grieving. Take all the time you need. But when you're ready to create again, I'll be here. Your talent doesn't disappear just because your heart is broken. I'm a call away.

  God. Adele. I felt really bad about that one. She’d given me a huge opportunity. I’d delivered and then stalled. Just when I was getting my life together, the rug was pulled from under me.

  In the midst of the message rubble was Amber. At least one person I wanted to reply to.

  Amber: Checking on you. Want me to come around with your favorite ice cream? We can binge the Pitch Perfect movies?

  I gave her message a thumbs up. Having zero energy to craft a reply. Might as well let her come over. Otherwise, the movie choices would get worse.

  There were several unexpected messages from Sam, too. Sam Walsh. He. u to work for Gwen at Bex. Kind of nerdy, quiet, but he was nice. He’d been kind enough to go to the funeral. I should at least try to muster up the energy to respond.

  Sam: Hey, Morgan. Just checking in. I know things are really hard right now. No pressure to respond. Just wanted you to know I'm thinking of you.

  We'd been friendly, though I'd never taken him up on his invitations for coffee. I stared at the messages, guilt mixing with something softer. All these people, reaching out into my darkness, refusing to let me disappear completely. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. What did you say to people who cared when you could barely remember how to care for yourself?

  Me: Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that.

  His reply came almost immediately.

  Sam: My office is around the corner from your co-op if you ever want to talk. Or just sit quietly. Whatever you need.

  Devon refused to let distance matter. Miriam treated the co-op like it was still partly hers. Adele believed I still had something to create. These people who weren't treating me like I was made of glass, just... broken. And breakable things could be mended. I set the phone down, something warm and unfamiliar stirring in my chest. Maybe Atticus was right. Maybe it was time to try living again, even if I had no idea how.

  Four

  Lance

  My damn ribs were killing me. A price paid for everything I’d gotten up to last night. I swallowed a groan as the memory of Morgan surged through me—her writhing in pleasure, the sound of her cries still echoing like a fucking brand in my head. That vision had chased me through every dream, and now it stalked me into daylight, too.

  I stared at the monitor, greedy for a glimpse of her. I ignored Hector, who sat near the window, silent and unreadable, like a damn statue carved out of ice.

  "You know," he said quietly, "I used to wonder why you never tried to take me with you."

  I finally looked away from the monitor. "What?"

  "When you left. When you walked away from the family." His jaw was tight, but there was something vulnerable in his eyes I'd never seen before. "You just... disappeared. Never looked back. Never tried to convince me to come with you."

  The accusation hit me like a physical blow. "You think I didn't want to?"

  "Did you?"

  I stared at him, this man who'd found me by accident nine years after I disappeared, who'd lived in my shadow our entire childhood. "Hector, you were grandfather's perfect assassin. You think I was going to waltz up to you and say 'hey, want to betray the family and run away with me'?"

  "Perfect assassin." Hector's voice was bitter. "Is that what you thought I was? His golden boy?"

  There it was. The resentment I'd heard in his voice for years, finally laid bare.

  "You think I was his favorite?"

  "I know you were. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise." Hector's laugh was bitter. "Lance the prodigy. Lance the perfect heir. Lance who could do no wrong in grandfather's eyes."

  "Lance who was beaten bloody every time I showed mercy. Lance who was punished for every sign of weakness." I met his eyes. "Is that what favoritism looked like to you?"

  Something shifted in Hector's expression. "I never saw the punishments."

  "He made sure you didn't. Made sure you only saw the praise, the opportunities, the training he gave me." I ran a hand through my hair. "You were two years older, Hector. You should have been his heir. But he chose me, and that destroyed us both."

  "I was jealous," he admitted quietly. "Furious that you got everything handed to you while I had to fight for scraps of his attention."

  "You were jealous of being his favorite target? Of the way he molded me into exactly what he wanted, while you got to be yourself?"

  "I was jealous that he saw potential in you. That he believed you were worth the investment." Hector's voice cracked slightly. "Do you know what it's like to be passed over by your own grandfather? To watch him pour everything into your younger brother while you're treated like you're invisible?"

  The pain in his voice was raw, real. And suddenly I understood why our relationship had been so poisoned from the start.

  "I didn't want his attention, Hector. I would have given anything to be invisible."

  "And I would have given anything to matter to him the way you did."

  We stared at each other across a gulf of misunderstanding that had shaped both our lives.

  "When I left," I said finally, "you were twenty. Already his perfect weapon. Already everything he wanted you to be. Why would I think you'd want to give that up?"

  "Because I was your brother," Hector said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And despite everything—the jealousy, the competition, the way he pit us against each other—I never stopped hoping you'd choose me over him."

  The truth settled in my chest like lead. I sighed and glanced back at the monitor. My thoughts felt chaotic, and a glimpse of her would center me. Morgan was grieving a death that should have been hers. She was alive because I'd grabbed her keys instead of mine that morning. Random chance, nothing more. If I'd taken the Porsche or the McLaren or any of the other cars in our garage, she'd be dead, and I'd be planning her funeral instead of watching her grieve mine.

  She was alive, and I was supposed to be grateful.

  Instead, I felt like I was drowning in guilt. Every tear on that surveillance monitor was because of me. Because I'd married her, loved her, made her a target.

  Grandfather had been right about one thing—loving Morgan had changed me. Made me softer, more human, less of the weapon he'd crafted.

  But he'd been wrong about everything else. Killing her wouldn't bring back the ruthless heir he wanted. It would create something much worse.

  A monster with nothing left to lose.

  "I thought about you every single day," I said, the words scraping out of me like broken glass. I looked at him and gave him my truth. "Every fucking day for ten years. Do you know what that was like? Knowing my big brother was trapped in that house, being molded into grandfather's perfect assassin?"

  Hector's eyes widened slightly. "Then why didn't you come back for me?"

  "Because I was eighteen and terrified and convinced that if I showed my face anywhere near you, grandfather would kill us both." I gestured at the monitor. "And because by the time I was strong enough to try, you were already his perfect weapon. I thought you'd chosen him over me."

  "When I found you years later, it was by accident. I wasn't looking for you—I was on a completely different job. And when I saw you..." His voice trailed off. "I realized I had a choice to make."

  "What kind of choice?"

  "Turn you in and prove my loyalty to grandfather once and for all. Or find a way to protect you without him knowing." Hector's hands clenched into fists. "I chose you. I've been choosing you ever since."

  I stared at him, my world tilting. "All this time, you've been..."

  "Feeding him false information when I could. Making sure he never got too close to finding you." Hector's laugh was bitter. "Do you think it was an accident that every lead went cold? That every promising trail dried up?"

  "Fuck." I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to process this. "All this time, I thought..."

  "That I was his loyal soldier. That I'd chosen him over you." Hector stood, pacing to the window. "I've been walking a tightrope, Lance. Trying to keep you alive while keeping myself from being discovered. It's been hell."

  The weight of what he was saying settled over me. All those close calls, all those times I'd managed to stay one step ahead—Hector had been the reason I'd survived them.

  "When did you start suspecting about our mother?" I asked.

  "About three years ago. Started noticing inconsistencies in the story. Small things at first." He turned back to me. "But I couldn't investigate properly without arousing suspicion. And I couldn't come to you because you had me thinking you were dead for a long time, and when I found you, you saw me as the enemy."

  "To be fair, I had no reason to trust you. But about Mom, I would have listened."

  "Would you? Really?" Hector's smile was sad. "I was grandfather's perfect soldier, remember? Why would you believe anything I said?"

  He was right. If Hector had approached me three years ago claiming to have evidence about our mother's murder, I would have assumed it was a trap to drag me back. I would have killed him…or died trying.

  "So you waited," I said.

  "I waited. And I planned. And I worked on building a case so airtight that even you couldn't deny it." He pulled out a tablet, swiping through files. "Financial records going back fifteen years. Communication logs. Witness statements from Marseille. Payment transfers to Pernaut and the men who killed her."

  I took the tablet and scrolled through the evidence. It was comprehensive, damning. The kind of case that could bring down an empire.

  "This must have taken years to compile."

  "Three years of careful investigation. Three years of pretending to be his loyal grandson while documenting his crimes." Hector's voice was flat. "Four years of watching him groom me to be his replacement heir, all while planning his destruction."

  "And now?"

  "Now we take him down. Together." He met my eyes. "The way we should have done ten years ago, if I'd been brave enough to follow you."

  I looked back at the surveillance monitor. Morgan was reading my journal again, tears streaming down her face.

  "She's going to waste away while we're planning grandfather's downfall," I said.

  "She's stronger than you think."

  "Not like this. Not without hope." I stood, my ribs protesting the movement. "I need to see her."

  "Lance—"

  " I need to let her know she's not alone."

  "If he finds out you're alive⁠—"

  "He won't. I'll be careful."

  Hector stepped in front of me, blocking my path to the door. "You'll be dead. And so will she."

  "Then what do you suggest? That I fucking watch her fade away?"

  "I suggest you trust me. " His voice was steady, certain. "Let me get to Marseille, activate our mother's old contacts, set the wheels in motion."

  "So I’m supposed to leave her in the meantime?"

  "No. We'll have Silas also keep an eye on her. He’s obviously really good at being a ghost. And he’ll be back up to the Pendragon team. He can make sure she's safe."

  I wanted to argue. Every instinct I had screamed at me to go to Morgan, to hold her, to make this right. But Hector was offering me a real chance to destroy grandfather and keep Morgan safe.

  A chance to come back from the dead permanently.

  “Fine.”

  I turned back to the monitor. Morgan had finally gone to bed. Watching my wife sleep fitfully in a bed that wasn't ours, in a life that had been torn apart by my family's sins.

  "For what it's worth," I said quietly, "I'm sorry I didn't trust you sooner."

  "For what it's worth," Hector replied, "I understand why you couldn't. I gave you every reason to see me as the enemy."

  "And our mother would have been proud of what you're doing now."

  "I hope so. Because everything I've done for the last few years has been for her. And for you." Hector's hand landed on my shoulder; the first time he'd touched me with anything other than violence or perfunctory care in over a decade. "And now we're going to make him pay for what he took from us."

  I nodded, not trusting my voice. On the screen, Morgan stirred in her sleep, reaching for something that wasn't there.

  I could wait. I could stay dead for a little while longer if it meant giving her a real future instead of a life spent looking over her shoulder.

  But every day would be torture.

  "I'll start making calls to Marseille," Hector said, moving toward his laptop. "The sooner we move, the sooner you can go home."

  Home.

  To Morgan. To the life we'd built together before grandfather's poison had infected everything.

  It felt impossible, but for the first time since the explosion, it also felt possible.

  I just had to trust the brother I'd spent ten years running from.

  The brother who'd been protecting me all along.

  Morgan

  I woke up with that familiar ache in my chest.

  Another day without Lance.

  Another day of pretending to be okay when I felt like I was drowning.

  I'd actually slept for five hours straight last night.

  Small victories, I guess.

  I padded to the desk where I'd left my sketchbooks the night before. Seeing my wedding dress designs in daylight made my stomach twist. What had I been thinking? Planning a future that would never happen. I’d done them thinking I might wear one if Lance and I ever renewed our vows.

  That will never happen now.

  But when I opened my main sketchbook to tear out those pages, I found something else.

  Another entry.

  In Lance's handwriting.

  Your art is healing. Keep creating. You're stronger than you know.

  My hands started shaking.

  What the hell?

  I flipped through the pages frantically, checking for other changes. But everything else was exactly as I'd left it. Just this one new message, written in Lance's familiar script.

  "No, no, no," I whispered to myself.

  This couldn't be happening again. I'd been so careful yesterday. Checked every page before putting the sketchbook away.

  This entry definitely wasn't there before.

  "Morgan?" Gwen's voice came from the hallway. "You okay in there? You sound upset."

  I must have been talking louder than I thought.

  "I'm fine," I called back, though I was anything but fine.

  "Can I come in?"

  Before I could answer, she was already in the doorway. Gwen had never been great with boundaries when she was worried.

  "What's going on?" she asked, noticing my expression.

  I handed her the sketchbook without a word.

  Gwen read the entry, her brow furrowing. "This is new?"

  "Yes. It wasn't there yesterday when I put the book away."

  "Morgan..." Gwen's voice had that careful tone again. The one that meant she thought I was losing it.

  "I know how it sounds. But I'm not imagining this."

  "Honey, you've been under so much stress. Maybe you just missed it⁠—"

  "I didn't miss anything." My voice was sharper than I intended. "I know what was in my own sketchbook."

  Gwen sat on the edge of the bed, studying my face with that worried expression I'd become so familiar with.

  "This is the second time you've found something like this. Don't you think that's a little..."

  "A little what? Crazy?"

  "I didn't say crazy."

  "You didn't have to. It's written all over your face."

  Gwen sighed. "I'm worried about you. We all are."

  "Because I'm trusting my own perceptions?"

  "Because you're finding messages from your dead husband."

  The blunt statement hit me like a slap. But it was also honest, which I appreciated more than the careful tiptoeing everyone else had been doing.