Chapter 5
1249words
She didn't go to her studio in SoHo, but returned to her parents' mansion on Long Island. Like a wounded bird returning to its nest, she retreated into her childhood bedroom—that pink sanctuary filled with lace, sunshine, and girlhood dreams.
She removed the SIM card from her phone, cutting off all contact with the outside world. Daniel's calls and messages went ignored. And the name of another person was like a branding iron—one she didn't even have the courage to think about.
Julian.
She didn't know how to face him. The man who, on her eighteenth birthday, shattered her world with the words "I am your brother"; the man who, five years later, at her most vulnerable moment, had completely upended her world in the most primal, savage way.
Did she hate him? Of course.
But when she curled up in bed, tormented by memories of that night, what haunted her wasn't his aggressive passion, but his eyes—filled with a deep pain she couldn't understand—when he'd crouched down and wiped away her tears with gentle fingertips.
This feeling, more complex than hatred, left her utterly lost.
And so, like an oyster, she sealed herself within her shell, believing she could shut out everything. Until the third afternoon, when her father, Mr. Carter, pushed open her bedroom door.
Seeing his daughter's pale, haggard face and that vacant, disoriented look in her eyes, Mr. Carter's heart clenched. He didn't know what had happened, assuming it was just some trivial young person's drama.
"Chloe, you can't keep mistreating yourself like this," he said in a tone that brooked no argument yet carried fatherly concern.
Then, he made what he believed was the most sensible decision. He took out his phone and dialed the number of the person he trusted most—the only one who could "handle" his daughter.
"Julian," as soon as the call connected, he got straight to the point, "I don't know what's wrong with Chloe, but she refuses to talk to me. You two have always been closest, and she only listens to you. Come home for dinner tonight. As her brother, talk some sense into her. You always know how to make her smile."
This phone call, for Chloe lying in bed and Julian on the other end of the line, was nothing short of a summons neither could refuse.
At seven o'clock that evening, the Carter family dining room was brightly lit.
The air was filled with the aroma of roasted turkey—and a suffocating, strange silence.
Chloe sat at the dining table like a meticulously dressed doll, wearing an elegant beige gown. Across from her sat the equally silent Julian. Dressed in a simple black turtleneck cashmere sweater, he had shed the sharp edges of the business tycoon and looked more like a brooding older brother who had returned home.
And Mr. Carter, seated at the head of the table, played the oblivious director, enthusiastically pushing this drama of "sibling reconciliation" toward its climax.
"Julian, go sit next to your sister," he said with disapproval as he looked at the two sitting apart. "Look at her, her face has gotten so thin. You need to take better care of her."
Julian's body tensed slightly, but he obediently stood and moved to the seat beside Chloe. The scrape of the chair against the floor seemed deafening in the silent dining room.
He sat very close—so close that Chloe could clearly smell that familiar pine scent that had triggered her breakdown at the hotel. Her body tensed involuntarily.
"That's more like it." Mr. Carter nodded with satisfaction, then personally used his fork to transfer the untouched green peas from Chloe's plate to Julian's.
"Julian, as usual, your sister's 'leftovers' are now yours."
This habit they'd had since they were twelve had now become a ceremony fraught with tension and racing hearts. Julian picked up his knife and fork, smoothly cutting those peas and eating them as if everything were normal. But his knuckles turned white from gripping the silverware too tightly.
The waiter served the main course—filet mignon. Chloe was distracted, her hand trembling slightly as she tried unsuccessfully to cut through the meat.
Suddenly, a large hand with prominent knuckles reached over and covered hers. The scorching heat penetrated her skin, burning straight into her heart. Chloe jerked her head up as if electrocuted.
Julian didn't look at her. He simply used his other hand to take away her plate, then pushed his own—with the steak already cut into perfect bite-sized pieces—in front of her.
The entire movement was fluid and swift, giving Chloe no time to react.
"Why are your hands so cold," he said in a low voice that only they could hear. It wasn't flirtation but rather an instinctive, caring concern tinged with reproach.
Then, he withdrew his hand and continued cutting the steak that had been exchanged—the one that had been hers—as if that intimate yet domineering gesture was nothing more than a brother caring for his sister.
Chloe looked at the perfectly cut pieces of meat before her, and her heart filled with a complex, bitter emotion.
"Ah," Father took a sip of red wine, sinking into memories, "I still remember Chloe's eighteenth birthday when she ruined the cake and cried like a little kitten. It was you, Julian, who quietly went to the kitchen and made her an identical one. Back then, you two were inseparable. Why are you so distant now?"
The words "eighteenth birthday" were like a key that instantly unlocked the most painful memories for both of them. Julian's knife froze mid-cut. As for Chloe, she flinched as if pricked by a needle, her hand beneath the table clutching her skirt tightly.
Julian's gaze, beyond his control, fell upon Chloe with a deep, complex emotion full of remorse—a silent apology.
And Chloe, after meeting his eyes for a second, quickly looked away as if burned, forcing a smile that looked worse than tears. "Dad, we're all grown up now. Why bring up ancient history?"
Father completely missed the turbulent undercurrent between them and continued his well-intentioned meddling. "Julian, what's really going on with Chloe? Doesn't she talk to you? Have you found out anything?"
This question, like a sharp knife, stabbed directly at the paper-thin facade between them.
Chloe's breath caught.
Just as she was about to crumble.
Julian's phone, placed on the dining table, suddenly rang. He glanced at the caller ID, then with perfectly calibrated regret, said to Mr. Carter: "I'm sorry, Father. It's an urgent call from the Berlin office. I must take it now."
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, that air of undisputable authority belonging to a business empire ruler returning to his demeanor.
"Please continue eating," he said, giving a meaningful look at Chloe's pale face. "I'll be back shortly."
With that, he took his phone and strode from the dining room.
The call was fake.
Chloe knew it. Julian knew it too.
But it came like a timely rescue, temporarily saving her from the suffocating waters in which she was drowning.
She watched his departing, straight-backed figure, then looked down at the steak on her plate—carefully cut into bite-sized pieces by his hand—which she hadn't touched at all.
The pure "hatred" and "fear" in her heart began to be uncontrollably replaced by a deeper, more unsolvable emotion… called "confusion."
What exactly was he regretting?
