PART 2 The man I thought was my boyfriend pulled me into his arms, and before I could question the dangerous intensity in his eyes, I kissed him
PART 2
“Wrong brother, darling.”
The stranger’s voice brushed against my mouth, low and amused.
For one impossible second, I remained frozen inside his arms.
Then the meaning of Christian’s voice reached me.
I pushed backward so quickly that my heel caught on the edge of the rug. The man in black steadied me before I fell, one hand closing around my elbow.
He released me immediately.
The room had gone silent.
Not politely quiet. Completely silent.
A woman near the fireplace held a serving spoon suspended above a bowl. Two older men had stopped speaking mid-conversation. Even the musicians in the adjoining salon seemed to have forgotten the next note.
Christian stood three steps behind me.
He looked exactly like the man I had kissed.
The same dark hair. The same straight nose. The same gray eyes.
But where Christian’s face was open and expressive, his brother’s seemed carved from something colder. His hair was slightly longer, his shoulders broader beneath the black jacket, and a narrow scar disappeared into his left eyebrow.
Christian stared at me as though I had struck him.
“Emily?”
“I thought he was you.”
My voice came out breathless.
A muscle tightened in Christian’s jaw.
The other man adjusted one of his cuffs.
“In her defense,” he said, “you failed to mention the identical twin.”
Christian’s gaze snapped toward him.
“I told her about you.”
“Apparently not in enough detail.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
My face burned so fiercely that I wanted the marble floor to open beneath me.
The woman standing beside the fireplace recovered first. She was elegant, silver-haired, and dressed in deep blue. She set down the serving spoon and crossed the room with the calm confidence of someone accustomed to rescuing family gatherings from disaster.
“You must be Emily,” she said warmly. “I’m Helena Weber.”
Christian’s mother.
Of course she had witnessed me kiss the wrong son within thirty seconds of entering her home.
“I’m so sorry.”
“For arriving?”
“For everything after arriving.”
Her mouth curved.
“My sons have been confusing people since the day they were born. Usually with less dramatic results.”
A quiet laugh moved through the room, loosening the tension.
Christian did not laugh.
Neither did Eric.
Helena touched my arm.
“Dinner is almost ready. Why don’t you come with me for a moment?”
I glanced at Christian, hoping he would step forward.
He remained where he was.
Eric watched him, then looked at me.
The amusement had faded from his expression.
I followed Helena through a pair of glass doors into a conservatory filled with lemon trees and white orchids.
The moment the doors closed, I pressed both hands against my face.
“I kissed his brother.”
“Yes.”
“In front of his entire family.”
“Yes.”
“I may have to move to another country.”
“That seems inconvenient.”
I lowered my hands.
Helena smiled gently.
“Emily, no one here believes you did it deliberately.”
“Christian might.”
“He’s embarrassed.”
“So am I.”
“He will survive it.”
I looked through the glass doors.
The brothers stood on opposite sides of the room, surrounded by relatives pretending not to watch them.
“Why didn’t Christian tell me they were completely identical?”
“He probably thought saying ‘twin’ was sufficient.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No,” she agreed. “It rarely is.”
I studied her face.
“Are they always like this?”
“Like what?”
“As though they’ve spent years preparing for an argument neither one wants to begin?”
Helena’s smile disappeared.
“You notice more than Christian suggested.”
“He talks about his family carefully.”
“That is a kind way of putting it.”
She reached toward one of the lemon trees and turned a leaf between her fingers.
“Christian and Eric have been different since childhood. Christian wanted everyone happy. Eric wanted everyone honest.”
“Those things aren’t opposites.”
“In this family, they have often been treated that way.”
Before I could ask what she meant, the conservatory door opened.
Christian entered alone.
“Mom, may I speak to Emily?”
Helena glanced between us.
“Of course.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
Christian remained near the entrance.
I waited for him to cross the room.
He did not.
“I really thought he was you,” I said.
“I know.”
“You don’t sound as though you know.”
He looked through the glass toward the gathering.
“You kissed him.”
“Yes. Because he has your face.”
“He could have stopped you.”
The accusation in his tone caught me off guard.
“It happened in less than two seconds.”
“He enjoyed making me look ridiculous.”
“This isn’t about you looking ridiculous.”
Christian finally met my eyes.
“Do you know how many times he has done this?”
“Kissed your girlfriend?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
Then he looked away.
“He walks into a room and takes over. People become fascinated by him. They forget anyone else is standing there.”
I folded my arms.
“I didn’t forget you. I didn’t know he existed until two days ago.”
“I told you.”
“You warned me he was intense. You didn’t say he was your exact double.”
Christian exhaled.
“You’re right. I should have explained better.”
The apology sounded sincere, but something remained between us.
“I don’t want our first dinner with your family to become a fight,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
“Then stop looking at me as though I betrayed you.”
His expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
This time, I believed him.
He crossed the room and reached for my hand.
“I was nervous about tonight before that happened.”
“Why?”
“Because my family complicates everything.”
“I’m meeting them, Christian. I’m not merging companies with them.”
A strange look passed over his face.
Then it vanished.
“I know.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Come back to dinner?”
“I’m not sure I can face your grandmother.”
“Oma Rose once mistook a senator for a coat attendant and gave him five dollars. She won’t judge you.”
“That story is not as reassuring as you think.”
Christian smiled, and some of the man I knew returned.
We reentered the drawing room together.
Eric stood near the library doors, speaking to an older man with a silver beard. He did not look at me.
That should have made things easier.
It did not.
Dinner was served in a room large enough to belong to a hotel. A long table stretched beneath three chandeliers, crowded with platters of roasted vegetables, bread, pasta, and enough food to feed twice the number of guests.
Helena seated me between Christian and his younger sister, Natalie, a law student with quick eyes and a habit of asking questions before anyone finished answering the previous one.
Eric sat across from me.
Naturally.
Christian’s father, August Weber, occupied the head of the table. He was tall and reserved, with the same gray eyes as his sons, though none of their warmth.
At the opposite end sat Rose Weber, the family grandmother. She wore an emerald jacket, several gold rings, and an expression suggesting she had already learned every secret in the room.
“So,” Rose said as soup was served, “you kissed Eric.”
Christian nearly dropped his spoon.
Helena closed her eyes briefly.
“Oma,” Natalie warned.
“What? We were all thinking about it.”
I set down my napkin.
“I mistook him for Christian.”
Rose studied the twins.
“Understandable. I mixed them up until they were eight.”
“I was six,” Christian said.
“You were very repetitive children.”
Eric reached for the bread.
Rose turned to me.
“Was he at least polite?”
My cheeks warmed again.
“He didn’t push me away.”
Eric’s gaze lifted.
“Emily—”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”
Christian stiffened beside me.
Eric placed the bread back on the plate.
“For the record, I was surprised.”
“You smirked.”
“That happened after.”
Natalie covered a laugh with a cough.
I looked directly at Eric.
“You also called me darling.”
His expression became almost apologetic.
“That was unnecessary.”
“Completely.”
“Then I apologize.”
The simple admission disarmed me.
Christian leaned back in his chair.
“You never apologize.”
Eric turned toward him.
“I do when I’m wrong.”
The sentence carried more history than the moment deserved.
August Weber cleared his throat.
The conversation changed immediately.
“So, Emily,” he said, “Christian tells us you are an interior designer.”
“I am.”
“Residential?”
“Mostly. A few boutique offices and restaurants.”
“She’s working on the Ashford penthouse,” Christian added.
My spoon stopped halfway to the bowl.
August looked toward Eric.
Rose smiled.
Natalie suddenly became very interested in her water glass.
I lowered the spoon.
“How do you know that?”
Christian’s hand moved beneath the table and rested on my knee.
“I was going to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
He glanced at his father.
August answered for him.
“We own the Ashford building.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard.
The penthouse project had come through Dalton & Price, the design consultancy that hired me as an independent contractor. The client’s identity had been protected under a confidentiality agreement. I had been told only that the owner wanted a young designer with an unconventional approach.
“You own it personally?” I asked.
“The family company owns the building,” August replied. “The penthouse is part of the restoration.”
I turned to Christian.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“From the beginning.”
The warmth of the dining room disappeared.
“Did you arrange the project?”
“No.”
“Did your father?”
August frowned.
“I had no involvement in the selection.”
Rose buttered a piece of bread.
“I did.”
Every face turned toward her.
She continued calmly.
“I saw Emily’s work at the New Designers Exhibition last spring. Her use of restored materials was thoughtful.”
I remembered the exhibition.
Most visitors had passed my display without stopping. A woman in dark glasses had spent almost twenty minutes studying my drawings but had not introduced herself.
“You were there,” I said.
Rose smiled.
“So were you.”
Christian squeezed my knee.
I moved his hand away.
“Did you know who I was when we met?”
He looked genuinely hurt.
“No. We met at Natalie’s gallery fundraiser. I asked you out because I wanted to.”
“But afterward?”
“I recognized the project name when you mentioned it.”
“And said nothing.”
“I couldn’t. The client agreement was confidential.”
“You could have told me your family owned the building without revealing your grandmother was the client.”
Christian’s silence confirmed it.
Across the table, Eric watched us with a controlled expression.
“Did you know?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
“Does everyone in this family know things about my life before I do?”
Natalie spoke softly.
“I didn’t.”
“Thank you. That helps a little.”
Helena set down her glass.
“Perhaps this conversation would be better after dinner.”
“No,” Rose said. “Secrets rarely improve with dessert.”
August’s expression hardened.
“Mother.”
“Young people always believe waiting makes dishonesty more respectable.”
Christian turned toward me.
“I didn’t tell you because I knew you would think our relationship influenced the project.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
Rose answered at the same time.
“Not initially.”
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
She folded her napkin beside her plate.
“It means your work brought you to my attention. Your relationship with Christian made me curious about you.”
“Professionally?”
“Personally.”
The unease that had followed me through the iron gates returned.
Christian leaned closer.
“Emily, this is why I wanted to wait. My grandmother has a habit of treating people like puzzles.”
Rose did not deny it.
I stood.
“I need some air.”
Christian started to rise.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
The word came out sharper than I intended.
His face changed.
“I need five minutes by myself.”
I left the dining room before anyone could stop me.
The rear terrace overlooked formal gardens silvered by moonlight. The evening air was cool enough to clear the heat from my face.
I gripped the stone railing.
Two months.
Christian and I had been dating for two months, and somehow his family had already become connected to the most important project of my career.
Perhaps it was coincidence.
Perhaps Rose had selected me before Christian and I met.
But Christian had known.
Every time I complained about the anonymous client rejecting a fabric or changing a floor plan, he had listened while withholding the fact that the client was his grandmother.
I heard the terrace door open.
“I asked for five minutes.”
“That’s why Christian sent me instead.”
Eric’s voice.
I turned.
He had removed his jacket. The white sleeves of his shirt were folded to his elbows, revealing a watch with a worn leather strap.
“That makes no sense.”
“He believes you’re less likely to argue with me.”
“I kissed you by mistake, and we argued before the soup arrived.”
“He may have miscalculated.”
I looked toward the gardens again.
“You knew about the penthouse.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think I deserved to know?”
“It was not my information to reveal.”
“That seems to be the family motto.”
Eric leaned against the opposite side of the railing, leaving several feet between us.
“You’re angry with Christian.”
“I’m angry with all of you.”
“Reasonable.”
His calmness irritated me.
“What exactly do you do in the family business?”
“According to Christian?”
“He said you’re involved in the parts he stays away from.”
A tired smile touched Eric’s face.
“That sounds like him.”
“Is it true?”
“I handle acquisitions, disputes, and restructuring. I’m the person called when a project has legal problems, missing money, or contractors who stop returning calls.”
“And the security guards?”
“Three months ago, someone broke into our office and stole records connected to the Ashford restoration.”
I looked toward him.
“What records?”
“Original architectural plans. Financial documents. Correspondence from the building’s first owners.”
“That sounds oddly specific.”
“It was.”
“Was anything else taken?”
“No.”
“Why would someone steal old plans?”
“We don’t know.”
A breeze moved across the terrace, lifting the edge of my dress.
Eric watched the dark garden.
“The Ashford is more than a valuable building. Our grandfather built it before he established the company. The penthouse was his private residence.”
“Rose lived there?”
“For seven years.”
“Why renovate it now?”
“That is a question she should answer.”
I studied his profile.
He looked so much like Christian that it felt disorienting. Yet the similarities ended with the shape of his face. Christian filled silences quickly, as though afraid of what might grow inside them. Eric seemed comfortable waiting until words were necessary.
“Why did Christian tell me not to believe you?” I asked.
Eric’s expression closed.
“You should ask him.”
“I’m asking you.”
He turned toward me.
“Because three years ago, I told our father that Christian had signed documents he had not read.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind of documents?”
“Loan guarantees for a development that was already failing.”
“Did he know?”
“No.”
“Then why did he sign them?”
“Because our father asked him to.”
“And you refused?”
“I read them.”
The bitterness in his voice was quiet.
“The project collapsed. Christian lost his position in the company, even though our father had made the decisions. Christian believes I protected myself at his expense.”
“Did you?”
“I protected the employees whose pensions would have been used to cover the debt.”
There was no pride in his answer.
Only exhaustion.
“Christian said you make people uncomfortable.”
“People are often uncomfortable around information they hoped would remain hidden.”
The terrace door opened again.
Christian stood there.
His gaze moved from me to Eric.
“I asked you to bring her back.”
Eric straightened.
“She isn’t a coat.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“You often don’t.”
Christian’s jaw tightened.
“Can I speak to my girlfriend alone?”
Eric looked at me, not Christian.
“Do you want me to leave?”
The question reminded me of something important.
Choice.
“I need to talk to Christian.”
Eric nodded once and returned inside.
Christian waited until the door closed.
“What did he tell you?”
“Why is that always your first concern?”
“Because Eric tells the truth in ways designed to hurt people.”
“He told me about the loan guarantees.”
Christian’s face lost color.
“That was private.”
“So was my career.”
“This isn’t the same.”
“No. It isn’t.”
I crossed my arms against the cold.
“Did your father ask you to sign documents without reading them?”
Christian looked toward the dark lawn.
“Yes.”
“And Eric warned him?”
“He made me look incompetent in front of the board.”
“Were you?”
The question hurt him.
I saw it immediately.
But I did not withdraw it.
“I trusted my father,” he said.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Christian paced several steps away.
“You don’t understand this family.”
“I’m trying to.”
“No, you’re listening to Eric’s version because he knows how to make himself sound noble.”
“And you know how to make everything sound less serious than it is.”
He stopped.
I had never spoken to him that way.
For two months, our relationship had been easy because neither of us had asked the difficult questions.
I had mistaken ease for honesty.
Christian lowered his voice.
“I didn’t tell you about the building because I was afraid you’d think I approached you for the project.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
His answer came instantly.
I believed him.
But belief was not the same as trust.
“Then why didn’t you tell me after we became serious?”
“Because I liked being the person you saw when you looked at me.”
I frowned.
He glanced through the glass doors toward his family.
“Not August Weber’s son. Not Eric’s twin. Not the brother who made a bad business decision. Just Christian.”
The anger inside me softened, though it did not disappear.
“I understand wanting that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I’ve spent years being introduced as the designer with potential. Never the designer who has arrived.”
His expression softened too.
“But you took away my choice,” I continued. “You let me speak about the project without giving me information that affected it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that in the conservatory.”
“I meant it there too.”
“I know.”
The sadness in my voice surprised us both.
“Are you ending this?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Fear crossed his face.
Not anger. Not wounded pride.
Fear.
“I care about you, Emily.”
“I care about you too. That’s why this matters.”
He reached for my hand but stopped before touching me.
“What do you need?”
“The truth. Even when it makes you look imperfect.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“That could take a while.”
“I’m not asking for your entire life tonight.”
“Just the important secrets?”
“That would be a start.”
He nodded.
Then he looked toward the house.
“There is one more thing.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
“The penthouse project wasn’t assigned only because my grandmother liked your exhibition.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know. She refused to tell me.”
“Did you ask?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Why would she choose me for another reason?”
Christian’s gaze moved to the tall windows of the library.
“Because she knew your mother.”
The terrace seemed to tilt.
“My mother?”
“Rose recognized your last name.”
“Hart is not unusual.”
“She recognized your design style.”
I stared at him.
“My mother wasn’t a designer.”
“That isn’t what my grandmother says.”
My mother, Elaine Hart, had taught art at an elementary school. She painted watercolors on weekends and rearranged our furniture whenever she was worried. She died when I was nineteen after a long illness.
She had never mentioned Rose Weber.
Or the Ashford.
“Where is your grandmother?”
“In the library.”
I walked past him.
Rose sat alone near the fireplace, an old wooden box resting on the table beside her. The family had moved to the drawing room for coffee, though several voices fell quiet when I crossed the hall.
Rose looked up.
“I wondered how long Christian would wait to tell you.”
“Why did you hire me?”
She gestured toward the chair across from her.
I remained standing.
“Your mother worked at the Ashford,” she said.
“As a teacher?”
“As an assistant to the original interior architect.”
I shook my head.
“That’s impossible. She would have told me.”
“People rarely tell their children every version of themselves.”
Rose opened the wooden box.
Inside were sketches on yellowing paper, photographs, and bundles of fabric tied with faded ribbon.
The colors struck me first.
Cognac velvet.
Deep forest silk.
Warm gold linen.
The same palette covering my drafting table.
Rose removed a sketch.
It showed the Ashford penthouse library almost exactly as I had redesigned it—curved shelves, bronze lamps, a reading platform beneath the west windows.
My name was not at the bottom.
Elaine Hart was written there.
Dated twenty-seven years earlier.
I sat down.
“My mother drew this?”
“She designed much of the original penthouse.”
“Then why isn’t she credited?”
Rose’s face tightened.
“Because my husband took her work.”
I stared at her.
“He presented the designs under the name of a senior architect. Elaine objected. She threatened legal action.”
“Did she file?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“That is where the story becomes difficult.”
“Everything in this house becomes difficult the moment someone reaches the truth.”
Rose accepted the criticism without flinching.
“Elaine disappeared before the final plans were registered.”
“My mother didn’t disappear. She moved to Connecticut and became a teacher.”
“We did not know that.”
“You could have found her.”
“My husband claimed she had accepted a settlement.”
“Did she?”
“I believed him.”
Rose looked older suddenly.
“Years later, after his death, I found proof that no settlement had been paid.”
I picked up another drawing.
The handwriting in the notes belonged to my mother. I recognized the way she shaped her capital E, the same way she wrote my name on birthday cards.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“I cannot answer that.”
“Why hire me now?”
“To restore her name.”
My throat tightened.
“By keeping your identity secret?”
“I wanted to know whether your work stood on its own.”
“That sounds like a test.”
“It was.”
“I didn’t agree to be tested.”
“No.”
Rose’s honesty was infuriating.
“I was wrong to conceal as much as I did,” she said. “But your designs were chosen because they are excellent, not because of your mother.”
I wanted to believe her.
I also wanted to walk out of the mansion and never return.
Rose slid a small envelope across the table.
“This arrived three weeks ago.”
My name was written on the front.
EMILY HART.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
“Who sent it?”
“There was no return address.”
Inside was a photograph of the Ashford penthouse during its original construction.
My mother stood beside the windows, smiling at the camera. She was younger than I had ever known her.
Beside her stood August Weber.
Christian and Eric’s father.
They looked close.
Too close to be strangers.
On the back, someone had written:
ASK AUGUST WHY ELAINE LEFT BEFORE EMILY WAS BORN.
My heart began to pound.
I looked toward the library doors.
August stood there.
He had entered without a sound.
Rose’s face hardened.
“How long have you been listening?”
“Long enough.”
His gaze fixed on the photograph in my hand.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was mailed to your mother.”
August crossed the room.
“Give it to me.”
I stood.
“No.”
The single word surprised me with its strength.
August stopped.
Behind him, Christian and Eric appeared in the doorway. Helena and Natalie followed several steps behind.
The entire family seemed to gather around the photograph.
“What does it mean?” I asked August.
He looked at Rose.
She did not rescue him.
“Elaine worked for the company,” he said.
“I know that now.”
“She was talented.”
“I know that too.”
His eyes moved to the message.
“People often invent stories around old photographs.”
“Then tell me the real one.”
August’s expression became carefully blank.
Before he could answer, Eric crossed the library and took the photograph from my hand.
He studied the construction site behind my mother.
“What is it?” Christian asked.
“This picture wasn’t taken twenty-seven years ago.”
Rose frowned.
“The penthouse was built twenty-seven years ago.”
“The photograph is recent.”
A chill moved through me.
“That’s my mother.”
“Yes,” Eric said. “But look at the window.”
In the lower corner of the glass was a small manufacturer’s mark.
Eric pointed to it.
“Those windows were replaced last month.”
No one spoke.
I took the picture back.
My mother looked young because the photograph was grainy and overexposed. But when I studied her carefully, I saw silver hidden in her dark hair.
Lines near her eyes.
She was older.
The woman in the photograph had not been my mother twenty-seven years ago.
It was my mother as she would look now.
Except Elaine Hart had died seven years earlier.
My knees weakened.
Christian moved toward me.
I stepped back.
“Who sent this?”
August’s face had gone pale.
Eric turned the photograph over again.
“There’s an impression beneath the ink.”
He carried it to Rose’s desk and angled it beneath the lamp. A second line had been written on paper placed above the photograph, leaving faint marks behind.
Natalie handed him a pencil.
Eric shaded lightly across the surface.
Slowly, another message appeared.
ELAINE DID NOT DIE IN CONNECTICUT.
SHE WENT BACK TO THE ASHFORD.
The room seemed to close around me.
“My mother is dead,” I said.
No one answered.
I remembered the final weeks of her illness.
The private clinic.
The closed casket she had requested.
The lawyer who handled everything before I could understand what was happening.
I had accepted each explanation because grief left no room for suspicion.
Eric reached into his pocket and removed his phone.
“The Ashford has security cameras.”
August stepped forward.
“No.”
Everyone turned toward him.
His control had finally cracked.
“You cannot go through those recordings.”
Eric’s gaze sharpened.
“Why?”
“Because the building is part of an active internal investigation.”
“Into stolen plans?”
“Among other things.”
Rose rose slowly from her chair.
“What have you hidden from us, August?”
He looked toward his mother.
Then at Christian.
Then Eric.
Finally, his eyes settled on me.
“I was trying to protect the family.”
“From my mother?” I asked.
“From what she discovered.”
Christian’s voice became quiet.
“What did she discover?”
August did not answer.
Eric called the Ashford’s security office.
“This is Eric Weber. Send me all footage from the penthouse level for the past thirty days.”
August reached for the phone.
Eric stepped away.
“Do not do this.”
“Then tell us the truth.”
For the first time, the brothers stood on the same side of the room.
August looked suddenly older than he had at dinner.
“The Ashford was never simply our grandfather’s residence,” he said. “It held the company’s private archives.”
Rose stared at him.
“You told me those records had been destroyed.”
“They were supposed to be.”
“Who stole the original plans?” Eric asked.
August’s silence answered.
“You know,” Eric said.
“I suspected.”
“Who?”
Before August could respond, Eric’s phone vibrated.
An email had arrived from the security office.
He opened the attached video.
The footage showed the unfinished penthouse three nights earlier. Plastic sheets covered the floors. Work lights cast long shadows across the room.
For several seconds, nothing moved.
Then a woman entered from the private elevator.
She wore a dark coat and carried a portfolio case.
My mother’s portfolio case.
I recognized the worn brass clasp. It had remained in our hall closet throughout my childhood, filled with papers she never allowed me to see.
The woman turned toward the camera.
Older.
Thinner.
Alive.
Elaine Hart looked directly into the lens as though she knew we would eventually watch.
She lifted a sheet of paper.
Written across it were six words.
EMILY, CHRISTIAN WAS NEVER THE CONNECTION.
The video continued.
A man entered the penthouse behind her.
Not August.
Not Christian.
Eric.
I turned toward him.
He looked as shocked as I felt.
“That isn’t me.”
On the screen, the man removed his coat.
A pale scar cut through his left eyebrow.
The same scar Eric carried.
But then he faced the camera fully, and one detail became clear.
His eyes were not gray.
They were dark brown.
Rose gripped the desk.
“No,” she whispered.
Helena’s hand flew to her mouth.
Christian stared at the screen.
Eric went completely still.
“What is it?” I asked.
Rose looked at the twins as though seeing ghosts standing among them.
Then she spoke a name no one had mentioned all evening.
“Gabriel.”
August closed his eyes.
Christian’s voice shook.
“Who is Gabriel?”
Helena began to cry.
Rose answered without looking away from the recording.
“Your brother.”
I stared at Christian and Eric.
“There are three of you?”
“There were,” August said.
The video ended.
A new message appeared on Eric’s phone, sent from an unknown number.
He read it silently.
Then he handed the phone to me.
My mother’s message filled the screen.
EMILY, DO NOT TRUST THE BROTHER WHO BROUGHT YOU INTO THIS FAMILY.
CHRISTIAN MET YOU BY CHANCE.
ERIC DID NOT.
END OF PART 2 – LIKE, SHARE AND COMMENT “THE ENTIRE STORY” IF YOU WANT TO READ THE FULL STORY
