The moment the butler mentioned the name on the phone, I froze.
"Nicolas Deverell?" I repeated.
"Yes, sir," the butler replied. "He says he needs to see you. Should I let him in?"
I hesitated for a second before replying, "Yes. Let him into the living room."
When I hung up, I just stood there for a moment, the phone still in my hand. Rose watched me, her lips parted slightly, eyes curious.
"Nick?" she asked. "Your cousin Nick?"
I nodded slowly.
She looked surprised. "It's been years since I last saw him. I think I was him last at our wedding.
"Yeah," I said quietly, already buttoning my shirt. "This is the first time he's ever come here."
She tilted her head. "I hope nothing is something wrong?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "He's been gone for so long… and now he shows up out of nowhere."
I tried to sound calm, but my heart was thudding. It had been years since Nick and I last spoke. Not because we fought, but because life and the chaos that followed my father's death tore everything apart.
Nick and I used to be inseparable. Though he was two years younger, we grew up more like brothers than cousins. When we were kids, he was the one person who really saw me, not the businessman's son, not the heir in training, just Maxwell.
And I was the only one who knew who he really was.
The memory came back so clearly that it almost hurt.
It was the summer at Grandfather's manor. I was Nineteen, Nick was seventeen. I'd gone looking for him that afternoon he said he wanted some air, so I followed him toward the woods. I thought he wanted to clear his head after another one of Uncle Timothy's loud arguments with his stepmother. But when I found him, I froze.
There he was kissing his father's young driver.
I remember standing there, too shocked to move. The look on his face when he saw me was something I can never forget pure panic, like his whole world had shattered.
He ran after me, his voice breaking as he begged me not to tell anyone.
"Please, Max, please," he had said, eyes wide, trembling. "You don't understand… if my father finds out, he'll destroy me. And he'll fire him. Please, you can't tell anyone."
That was the first time I had seen Nick cry. I still remember putting a hand on his shoulder and saying, "I won't tell anyone. You have my word."
He looked at me like I'd just saved his life.
From that day, something changed between us. He began to trust me with everything his fears, his dreams, his secrets. And I started seeing him not just as my cousin, but as my little brother.
He never came out to anyone else. He couldn't.
His father, Uncle Timothy, was a man obsessed with appearances —loud, proud, and deeply conservative for someone who cheated on his wife and fathered Nick with another woman. And his stepmother, Margaret, was the kind of woman who wore holiness like armor. Every Sunday, she'd be at the front pew, preaching about sin while ignoring the cruelty in her own home.
Nick grew up trying to please them both, never fitting in anywhere. It broke him slowly, but he never let it show.
That's why I kept his secret. Not because I pitied him but because I loved him.
And now, years later, he was standing in my living room.
When I entered, he was by the window. His back was to me, but I'd recognize that tall, lean figure anywhere.
"Nick," I called softly.
He turned around. The sight of him hit me harder than I expected. His face was thinner, his skin pale, his eyes tired. He looked like he hadn't eaten or slept properly in days.
For a second, he just stared at me. Then his lips trembled, and he walked straight toward me, pulling me into a hug.
I froze, then wrapped my arms around him. The embrace was tight desperate.
"Hey," I said quietly. "It's okay. You're here."
He didn't speak at first, just clung to me. When he finally pulled back, I could see he'd been holding back tears.
"I didn't know where else to go," he said, his voice low.
I guided him to the couch and poured him a glass of water. He sat down, holding it but not drinking.
"Talk to me," I said. "What happened?"
He looked down at the glass, swirling it slowly. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "My father found out."
I felt my stomach drop.
He didn't look up. "That's all," he said quickly, like he wanted to end it right there. "He found out."
I waited for him to continue, but he didn't. His jaw tightened, and I could tell he didn't want to talk about it.
"Nick," I said softly, "how did he—"
"I don't want to talk about it, Max." His voice cracked slightly. "Please."
The pain in his eyes stopped me. I nodded slowly.
"Okay," I said. "Okay. You don't have to."
He exhaled shakily, looking both relieved and ashamed.
"I just… I needed to get away," he said quietly. "I couldn't stay there another night."
I placed a hand on his shoulder. "You did the right thing by coming here."
He finally looked up, and for the first time that night, I saw the boy I once knew hiding behind those tired eyes. "I didn't know if you'd even want to see me," he said.
"Of course I do," I said firmly. "You're family, Nick. That never changes."
He smiled weakly. "Thanks, Max."
Just then, Rose's voice came from behind us. "I thought I heard your voice."
Nick stood up, and his face softened into something almost shy.
"Rose," he said, smiling faintly. "It's been a while."
She walked in, her smile bright. "You look thinner than you did at our wedding."
He laughed softly. "Yeah, I've had better months."
They hugged briefly, and I could see Rose's concern when she looked at him. But she didn't ask questions. She had always been gentle that way she knew when to give space.
The butler brought in drinks, whiskey for me and Nick, and red wine for Rose.
We sat together, trying to fill the silence with light talk. Rose asked about his work, his travels, anything that could make him smile. Nick answered politely, but I could tell his mind was somewhere else.
When Rose stepped out to take a call, I turned to him. "You can stay here for as long as you need," I said. "No questions asked."
He looked at me, eyes glassy. "You always do that, you know?"
"Do what?"
"Make me feel safe."
I smiled faintly. "That's what big brothers are for."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "You're only two years older."
"Still older," I said with a smirk.
That made him laugh for real, a sound I hadn't heard in years.
That night, after Rose went upstairs, Nick and I stayed behind in the living room, talking about everything and nothing. We shared old stories, laughed about childhood mischief, and remembered our fathers before the company tore the family apart.
When he finally yawned, I told him to get some rest. He nodded, and before heading to the guest room, he turned and said softly, "Thanks, Max. Really."
I watched him walk away and sighed. He didn't tell me the whole story, not yet. But I didn't need details to know he was hurting.
I'd be there for him. Just like before.