By the time he turned twenty, he had abandoned the warmth of the Delaunay estate, choosing solitude over family.
Our parents had asked why, and his response had been curt, “It’s only right that I struggle alone. I’ll return only for important occasions.”
And he had meant it. Even though he still met our father at the office, Victor had become a ghost in our family—present in name, but absent in all else.
I was fifteen at that time, so I had longed for my brother’s presence, missed the way he used to ruffle my hair, missed the way he once doted on me with quiet affection.
But at twenty-four, I felt nothing.
I had convinced myself I could live without his shadow. That I did not need him anymore.
But I was wrong.
Victor had calculated everything. And I had walked straight into his plan.
I sighed, the weight of my decision pressing down on my chest like an unbearable burden.
Without a word, I quietly packed my belongings—the clothes I had once folded neatly into Raphael’s drawers, the make up lined up beside his, the scent of his cologne lingering on the fabrics.
I did not belong there anymore. It never had been.
I did not need to stay in his space, where every wall whispered lies and every memory was tainted by betrayal. I would return to my own apartment, where at least the silence was not filled with deception.
As I reached for my makeup bag, my phone vibrated against the wooden nightstand. I hesitated before picking it up, expecting a call from Victor or perhaps another unwanted message from Raphael.
Instead, my screen lit up with an unexpected name.
Colette Birkin, my classmate, the girl who had lingered on the periphery of my relationship, always watching, always prying.
I tapped the message open, my fingers tightening around the phone.
[Nadine, you know if Raphael’s parents would never approve of a Delaunay, right? So, you better prepare, since they have arranged our engagement. They’ve wanted this for years.]
The air in the room seemed to vanish.
I re-read the message, disbelief twisting into something sharp and bitter in my chest. My classmate who had pretended to be nothing more than an amused onlooker, watching my love story unfold like a passing drama.
Only then did I realize—she had been part of the script all along.