Julian found her crying in the rose garden, a single, shattered bloom in her hand.
The thorns had bitten into her palm, a bright, clean pain that was easier to bear than the searing humiliation on the tennis court. The crimson petals of the rose were crushed, their velvety softness a stark contrast to the jagged edges of her composure. She tried to stifle the sobs, but they came anyway, harsh and ugly in the genteel afternoon air, each one a testament to her powerlessness.
"A bit dramatic for a flower, don't you think?"
The voice, laced with a familiar, dissolute charm, made her jump. Julian Crowe leaned against a stone archway smothered in wisteria, a silver flask glinting in his hand. He looked like a faded version of his brother—the same dark hair, the same arresting bone structure, but where Alistair was honed steel, Julian was tarnished silver. His clothes were rumpled, his eyes bloodshot, but his smile held a genuine, weary warmth that was utterly disarming.
"Go away," Elara whispered, wiping her face with the back of her hand, smearing dirt and tears.
"And miss the only interesting thing that's happened all day?" He pushed off the archway and ambled over, his gait unsteady. He didn't sit, but lowered himself to the gravel path beside her bench, not caring about the fine dust coating his trousers. He offered the flask. "Here. Better medicine than roses."
She hesitated, then took it. The liquor was smooth and smoky, burning a path of false courage down her throat. She handed it back, her hand trembling.
"He's an asshole," Julian stated, taking a long swig. "A magnificent, brilliant, catastrophic asshole. It's the family brand."
"He didn't even…" Her voice broke. "She called me a toy, and he just… he told her to know her place. As if I were a piece of furniture he was possessive of."
Julian barked out a laugh, a dry, hollow sound. "Oh, he's possessive, all right. But it's not you he's clinging to, not really." He looked at her, his gaze suddenly sharp, cutting through the alcoholic haze. "He's not just punishing you," he said, his voice dropping. "He's punishing the ghost of my father. You're just the stand-in."
The words echoed Markus's warning, but coming from Julian, they held the weight of shared history, of intimate knowledge. "What did I ever do to his father?" she asked, the question a plea. "My testimony was the truth. My father made a mistake, but he didn't…"
"Your father was a convenient scapegoat," Julian interrupted, his tone losing its lightness. "A fall guy for a much larger, much uglier sin." He took another drink, his eyes growing distant, fixed on the sprawling, oppressive beauty of the estate. "My father… he wasn't the saint Alistair has painted him to be. He was a man. A weak man, in the end."
Elara's breath caught. This was it. The crack in the monolith of Alistair's rage. "What do you mean?"
Julian's shoulders slumped, the flask dangling from his fingers. "The night he died… it wasn't a straightforward suicide. The official report, the clean narrative Alistair fed to the press and the police… it was a lie." He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers, filled with a decade of shared, buried pain. "There was a note."
The world seemed to tilt. "A note?"
"Addressed to Alistair." Julian's voice was a slurred whisper now, confessional. "He found it. He never showed it to the police. He never showed it to anyone." He tapped his own chest, over his heart. "He carries it with him, like a brand. A secret scripture for his holy war."
Elara's mind raced, the implications crashing over her like a wave. A note. A secret. The entire foundation of Alistair's hatred, the bedrock of her ruin, was built on something hidden, something he alone possessed. The revenge wasn't just about justice; it was about a truth so terrible he had to bury it, and in doing so, bury her along with it.
The sympathy she had been fighting for Alistair bloomed in her chest, a dangerous, treacherous flower. He wasn't just a monster; he was a wounded boy guarding a tomb. And she was the living reminder of what was inside.
Before she could form another question, a shadow fell over them.
They both looked up. Alistair stood at the entrance to the rose garden, his face a thundercloud. His gaze swept from Julian's prone form to Elara's tear-streaked face, to the crushed rose in her hand. The air grew cold.
"Julian," Alistair's voice was quiet, a lash of sound. "Get up. Now."
Julian scrambled to his feet with a drunkard's clumsy haste, the flask slipping from his grasp to land silently in a bed of mulch. "Ali… I was just…"
"I know what you were just," Alistair cut him off, his eyes never leaving Elara. They were no longer indifferent. They were blazing with a possessive, paranoid fury. He had seen them sharing a moment, a confidence, and it had shattered his icy control. "Get out of my sight."
As Julian scurried away, Alistair took a step toward Elara. The space between them crackled with a new, more volatile energy. He wasn't looking at a pawn anymore. He was looking at a threat.
His voice dropped to a whisper that was more terrifying than any shout, the words a promise and a threat that sealed them together in the dark truth Julian had just revealed.
"Stay away from my brother," he snarled. "His truths are more poisonous than my lies."