Chapter 2: Accusations and Ruin

It seemed like things were finally turning around.

For a brief moment, hope flickered. The thought of a new life, a fresh start, made the air feel lighter.

Andy’s smile was brighter than I’d seen in years. Even Ethan seemed changed, his eyes softening as he talked about the future.

But hope is a fragile thing in a house built on old wounds.

The next day, Savannah’s maid burst in, sobbing that Andy had drugged Savannah and was now attacking her. The words landed like a slap, sharp and raw.

Ethan grabbed his grandfather’s old Civil War saber and stormed into Savannah’s room. I remember the flash of steel, the sound of his boots pounding the floor.

He kicked the door open and saw Andy on top of Savannah, who was crying her eyes out.

Blinded by rage, Ethan stabbed Andy through the heart. I can still hear the sound, the way time seemed to freeze.

I fought with Ethan, too. I screamed, clawed at his arms, tried to pull him away, but he was stronger. The world spun out of control.

Andy had the mind of a six-year-old—how could he possibly drug Savannah?

I kept forgetting—when Ethan was forced into exile up north, it was Savannah who risked everything to keep him safe. When he came back in triumph, he made her his sworn sister—a kind of chosen family—and pushed to have her named Lady of Maple Heights.

To Ethan, Savannah could do no wrong.

“Your family’s blood is filthy. What aren’t you even capable of?”

The contempt in Ethan’s eyes hurt more than any slap. I felt it burn right through me.

I swallowed my pain, managed a hollow smile. “I wouldn’t dare blame you… Mr. Whitmore.”

The words tasted like ashes. My voice was barely more than a whisper, but the weight behind them was enough to make the room feel colder.

In four years of marriage, Ethan never once called me ‘Lila’—only ‘Nora’—and I only ever called him ‘Mr. Whitmore,’ never ‘Ethan.’

As if, by holding onto those names, the old Lila Brooks and Ethan Whitmore were still in love somewhere far away.

Now, the ones who hated and tormented each other were just Nora Brooks and the regent—the man who ruled everything, not just the country but my life. Regent. The word always felt foreign, like something out of a storybook.

That “Mr. Whitmore” finally pushed him over the edge.

He let go of my neck, slammed me onto the old oak altar. He glanced at Andy’s memorial photo, then sneered:

“Since you care so much about Andy, let him watch as the sister who protected him serves me right here.”

A cold shiver ran through me.

With that, Ethan tore my plain white dress and forced himself on me.

I fought, kicking and scratching, but I couldn’t move him at all.

Until finally, I just stopped. My hands fell limp, and the red agate bracelet on my wrist slipped into view.

Ethan’s movements paused when he saw my numb tears and that bracelet. Something in his face flickered.

His eyes went dark. In the end, he threw his suit jacket over me and stormed out, his face cold and closed off.

The winter wind brushed my face, as if Andy was wiping away my tears.

The air stung, but there was a strange comfort in the cold. It felt like Andy’s gentle touch, a reminder that I wasn’t completely alone.

I tossed aside Ethan’s jacket, stepped over the smashed cupcake on the floor, and took out the fake-death pills Dr. Carter had given me from their hidden compartment.

That day, Dr. Carter had said—his voice low and urgent:

“Take these pills, blow the bone whistle, and in seven days, no matter where you are, I’ll come get you.”

From the distant guest house came the sounds of men and women together, laughter and moans cutting through the night, stabbing at my numb heart.

There was a whole group of girls like me kept there; every time I fought with Ethan, he’d go to them instead. Like I was nothing.

I used to think that meant he still cared.

Now I just feel foolish.

I can’t hate him completely. After all, my father killed his whole family first. Sometimes I wonder if this is just the universe balancing the scales.

But these four years of mutual torment are enough.

I swallowed the pills and blew the bone whistle.

The sound was thin and mournful, carrying through the empty halls. It was the kind of sound that made you ache, the kind you heard in your bones. I felt lighter, somehow, as if I’d finally let go.

Seven days later, longing for you—Andy, my sweet brother—never to meet again in life or death.

The next day, Andy was buried.

Ethan came, too, red marks still on his neck from the night before—a bruise from our last fight, or maybe something else. I tried not to look.