Chapter 3

My eyes were glued shut, like they'd been sealed with cement.

Rain or tears—I couldn't tell what was streaming down my face.

My coat, soaked through, stuck to me like a second skin, red seeping through the sleeve.

Probably that scab on my arm, ripped open again while I was hauling my suitcase downstairs.

Pain? Nah, just a dull numbness creeping through me as I dragged that thing toward the villa's exit.

It was late—way too late to know if the campus dorms were even open.

Honestly, I had no clue where I was going.

"Winona, hold up!" Helen's voice, thick with tears, chased me through the downpour.

Then Tristan's sharp tone sliced through, trying to reel her back. "You know you're not supposed to get sick!

"What if you catch a cold in this mess?"

For a second, I thought he was talking to me.

But in my haze, I caught the rest: "Freddie, tell the maid to make Helen some lemon ginger tea!"

I tugged at my mouth, trying to force a smile, but it wouldn't come.

Maybe it was the all-nighter I pulled, or the frantic morning packing.

Now, drenched to the bone, my vision started to blur.

I stumbled, nearly face-planting, but a strong hand caught me just in time.

The rain stopped hammering my head.

I looked up, squinting through the blur, and saw Jake Miller, a senior from my department.

His car sat idling in the storm.

Without a word, he grabbed my suitcase and chucked it into his trunk.

Behind me, Tristan let out a cold laugh. "Ditching us that quick, huh? Looks you've got a big shot to bail you out now."

He'd followed just to gloat over my pathetic, soggy state.

Jake glanced at me, looking like he wanted to punch someone. "What kind of brother pulls this crap? Why do you even put up with them?"

He added, "You're out of here in a few days anyway—"

"Jake" I cut him off, panic spiking.

He clammed up, lips tight, then yanked open the car door and practically shoved me inside.

Tristan's face darkened.

"Jake, what's that supposed to mean?" he snapped.

Jake smirked, venom in his voice. "You'll see soon enough."

My heart lodged in my throat.

Tristan stood there, frozen, like he couldn't process it.

As Jake's car pulled away, Tristan lunged, trying to wrench my door open.

Jake hit the locks with a quick flick.

Through the rain-streaked window, I could just make out Tristan's lips moving.

"Winona, get out!" he yelled.

Anger twisted his face, mixed with something else—something I couldn't pin down.

But by now, I knew my leaving didn't mean much to him.

Or to Freddie.

I shut my eyes, blocking him out.

The car rolled on, and in the rearview, I saw Tristan standing there, unmoving, like a statue in the rain.

Jake was still pissed. "They kick you out in this storm, injured, and you still crawl back for more? I don't get it."

I stared out at the rain, falling in sheets.

After a long pause, I mumbled, "They used to be good to me."

Jake wasn't buying it.

We met in college; he never knew the Tristan and Freddie I grew up with.

My eyes stung, but I doubled down, firmer this time. "No, really. They were good to me back then."

Growing up, Mom and Dad were ghosts—always off in some lab, chasing medical breakthroughs.

They'd vanish for months, sometimes a year.

The nanny they paid and my two brothers, eight years older, were the ones who raised me.

When I was six, starting elementary school, there was a parent-teacher meeting.

Mom and Dad were halfway across the globe. I came home bawling, hiding under my blanket.

Tristan, just fourteen, snuck into my room to check if I'd kicked off my covers.

He found me sobbing, pulled back the blanket, and hugged me tight, wiping my tears like Mom would've.

"It's okay," he said, patting my back. "I've got you. I'll go to your meeting."

He added, "Mom and Dad are busy, but I'm never too busy for you."

Next day, he ditched class to show up at my school, only to get chewed out by my teacher for being a kid himself.

His middle school teacher made him stand on the playground all afternoon as punishment.

When he didn't show to pick me up, I ran to his campus and found him there, baking in the sun.

I was so scared he'd get heatstroke, I started crying.

He jogged down, grinning like it was nothing. "What's the big deal?

"Sun's nice and warm. I like it."

We grabbed street food and walked home under the moonlight.

The nanny was on leave, but Freddie had dinner waiting, the house smelling like heaven.

He poked his head out of the kitchen, holding plates. "Wash up. Food's ready."

Freddie was quiet but gentle, always looking out for me.

When I'd scrape my arm playing too rough and try to hide it, scared to tell anyone, he'd roll up my sleeve, clean the cut with iodine, and bandage it without a word.

When he was done, he'd look at me, like he wanted to scold me.

But seeing my guilty face, he'd just sigh softly, pat my head, and say, "Be good next time."

I was a clumsy, wild kid—being good wasn't my thing.

But he'd patch me up, over and over, always with that same soft sigh. "Be good next time."

With Mom and Dad gone so much, my brothers were my parents, raising me through those years.

Until I was twelve, when I saw the northern lights on TV.

Tristan promised to take me to see them over winter break. Freddie booked tickets for all three of us.

Then, the next day, our parents died.