An hour later...
The ambulance's interior hummed softly. Dahlia lay cocooned under a fleece blanket, her splinted arm elevated, her skin pale beneath the overhead light. The world outside moved in blurred bursts—streetlights like distant stars, sirens echoing in fading intervals.
Frederick sat beside her, not touching her yet. His eyes hadn't left her face since she'd been lifted from the rubble. There was relief in him, raw and barely restrained, but also an ache—a stinging quiet that refused to name itself.
Dahlia's gaze traced the weary lines on his brow, the way his lips pressed together too tightly, like they held back everything he'd wanted to say for days. Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic. "How's your mother?"
Frederick blinked, startled by the question. Then he sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Uncle Hadrian's with her now. He took her back to Saint Verdell when we found her." He rubbed his thumb over a faded bruise on his knuckle. "She disappeared from the rehabilitation center the same morning we were preparing for Silvas opening. That's why I left earlier and I asked Jackie to tell it to you."
Dahlia's breath hitched. "Jackie did tell me. Where did you found mother?"
Frederick nodded, gaze dropping to his hands. "I got the call right before I was supposed to return to you after smoking. Everything just... spun out. They couldn't track her. I spent two nights checking alleys and shelters, searching through flood zones and nursing registries. She was barefoot when they found her. Wearing one slipper. Singing to a broken window in a casino building that no longer had walls."
The ache in Dahlia's chest deepened. She knew the weight of wandering minds, the dread of unpredictability. But hearing it from him like this—raw, unfiltered—made her heart fold in on itself.
"She's stable now," Frederick murmured. "Uncle Hadrian's staying with her for the night." Then quieter, almost to himself: "I couldn't come back to you—not while she was still lost."
Dahlia reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his with the faint tremble of forgiveness. "You did a great job."
"I was afraid," he whispered. "Afraid you'd think I abandoned you. That again, I'd choose someone else over you."
Her voice cracked softly. "I understand."
Frederick looked up. His eyes, normally steady and kind, shimmered. "Thank you."
Outside, the city lights broke against the window like fragments of memory. Inside, the ambulance held a silence so intimate it felt sacred.
Dahlia let her thumb trace the inside of his wrist—a quiet answer. No blame, no anger.
Frederick squeezed her hand gently.
---
The wrought-iron gates of Avienne Manor stood ajar beneath the early blush of dawn. Pale gold light spilled across the cobblestone driveway, catching the dew on hedges trimmed with a gardener's devotion. The mansion itself loomed in serene confidence—its ivy-cloaked walls dappled by morning sun, windows still fogged from the night chill.
Seraphine stepped out of the sleek black car with composed grace, her heels clicking softly against the stone. Her coat was pale blue, cinched at the waist, and her hands curled around a bouquet she'd picked up en route—a subtle gesture, more habit than necessity.
She appeared calm, regal even. Her posture upright, lips pressed in a neutral line. But beneath that practiced composure, her eyes betrayed a gentle urgency—darting quickly across the familiar façade, catching on the second-floor balcony. The corners of her mouth twitched slightly, as if resisting a smile.
Her fingers lingered on the brass door handle longer than needed before pressing it open. Inside, the grand foyer greeted her with its high ceilings and faint scent of sandalwood polish. The marble tiles gleamed. The heirloom chandelier shivered slightly in a draft.
Then—thud.
Jonas appeared so suddenly around the corner that it was too late to halt his sprint. Arms full of scattered documents and a tablet flashing urgent alerts, he collided straight into Seraphine with a grunt, nearly sending the bouquet tumbling to the floor.
"Good heavens!" he gasped, staggering back. "Madam?! You're— You're finally here?"
Seraphine barely blinked, quickly catching the bouquet against her chest.
"Jonas," she murmured, "What's making you tense?"
Jonas, disheveled and wide-eyed, struggled to recalibrate. His collar was half-upturned, and one shoe seemed barely on. "Madam, I thought you'd be arriving tomorrow. We're behind on preparations—sir Callum's still... in the hos- pital."
"WHAT???"
Jonas blinked, panting. Then his shoulders sagged, the whirlwind quieted. "Sir wa--s... trapped in Silvas," he admitted, voice softening. "But they were already rescued."
Upon hearing the word rescued, Sera's lightning worry dimmed and unthundered. "Then, let's go already."
Jonas nodded slowly. Then, muttering careful words, "Madam, please slow down..."
Seraphine—still calm, still poised—but her steps weren't, and her heart sounded like war gongs.
--
The clock above the entryway chimed softly—twelve sharp.
Jonas pushed open the door with practiced caution, ushering Seraphine in behind him.
Jonas muttered, "They asleep," and gestured for Seraphine to enter —but Seraphine halted, her gaze drawn to the hospital bed.
There—tucked into the worn couch like a scene pulled from a decade ago—were Callum and Marcus. Both asleep, shoulders slumped against each other in that careless way only deep trust allows. Marcus's head lolled slightly onto Callum's shoulder, and Callum's arm had shifted forward, resting lightly over Marcus's wrist, as though he'd unconsciously protected him in sleep.
They looked like boys again.
Seraphine stood frozen. A strange hush pressed in around her, wrapping the room in a soft kind of sorrow.
Her fingers curled. She had seen this before.
---
12 Years Ago...
Sixteen.
She remembered it vividly: her hair in messy braids, a chipped blue nail on her thumb, the smell of her mother's simmering stew in the background.
Callum had come over again—late, dragging a poster board and half a pizza with him. He and Marcus had a science project due the next day, and as always, her brother insisted they work best under pressure.
They spread out across the living room floor—Callum cross-legged, Marcus belly-down with a marker clenched in his teeth. She'd pretended to be annoyed by the mess, but truthfully… she'd never minded their noise.
Hours passed. She had gone to fetch water from the kitchen, only to return and find them like that.
Asleep. Just like now.
Marcus curled toward Callum. Callum's arm draped lazily over Marcus's back, half-conscious even in sleep. The living room still smelled like glue and ink and the ridiculous citrus cologne Callum had started wearing that year.
She had stared, then, too.
Something about it—a feeling too big for her young self to name—lodged quietly in her chest. Not jealousy. Not envy. Just… the ache of being outside a kind of closeness that was effortless. Earned.
She remembered her mother walking by and whispering fondly, "Those boys… they'll carry each other through anything."
---
Return to present...
Seraphine blinked, breath caught in her throat.
Twelve years. And they still slept the same way—Callum anchoring Marcus like a tether in the dark. Maybe nothing had changed after all.
Jonas reappeared beside her, pausing when he saw what she saw. His voice was low, almost reverent.
"They look young and free."
"Yes," she murmured, her voice caught between a smile and something heavier.
Jonas gave her a knowing look but said nothing. He stepped away, letting her have the moment.
Seraphine tiptoed, setting her bag down. She reached for the folded blanket draped over the armrest and gently laid it across both of them.
Callum stirred but didn't wake. Marcus let out a faint sigh in his sleep, nestling in closer.
Her fingers hovered near Callum's shoulder—close enough to touch, but she didn't.
Instead, she whispered to the dark:
"Some things… I don't think I'll ever be a part of."
And yet, she didn't walk away.
She sat nearby, silent in the warm hush of friendship and the quiet kind of love she believed she would never have.