The photo sat on his desk like it had always belonged there. Four people, frozen in time. Mr. and Mrs. Velasco standing behind two boys in matching suits; Adrian taller, polished, perfect posture. Max in a crooked tie, half-grin already slipping into something mischievous. The backdrop was their old garden. An old fountain.
Adrian stared at it in silence.
He had been seventeen when that photo was taken. Max had just turned fifteen. Their mother had coaxed them both into wearing suits despite the heat. Their father had looked like he was preparing for a magazine shoot, one hand on Adrian's shoulder, as if trying to press obedience into his spine.
Even then, Adrian had stood still because he knew he was supposed to. Max had wriggled free the moment the camera clicked.
Now, Adrian was twenty-nine. And the photo sat on his desk like it was mocking him.
Max had done something Adrian never could. He stood up. He didn't argue. He didn't protest behind closed doors. He didn't negotiate, flatter, or strategize. He walked into the storm and dropped a bomb in the middle of it.
Adrian tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. The quiet of his room felt heavier than usual. Like even the furniture was holding its breath.
He had once thought being quiet was a strength. That silence was a shield. That dignity lived in swallowing pain, in choosing diplomacy, in protecting his family's image over his own freedom.
He had told himself Alaya was worth it. That their love would survive it. That it didn't matter who got hurt in the process, even if it was someone like Althea, who hadn't asked for any of this.
But that was a lie. She had been dragged into the fallout of a war she never started. And Max, Max had turned that fallout into fireworks and stolen the ending right out of Adrian's hands. He should hate him for it. But he didn't. He envied him.
Gentle arms wrapped around him from behind. Familiar. Comfortable. Alaya. His hands rested on hers automatically.
"You're doing it again," she murmured against his shoulder.
"Doing what?"
"Blaming yourself."
He didn't respond.
Alaya made him sit on the bed, knees brushing his.
"You're allowed to feel bad," she said gently. "But you're not allowed to turn into a guilt machine."
"I'm not—"
She raised an eyebrow. Adrian sighed. "It's just... I look at that photo, and I don't see a family anymore. I see four people who tried to play pretend until the mask cracked."
Alaya glanced at the picture. "Max was always smiling like he knew a secret."
"He probably did."
"You ever think maybe he just knew he didn't owe anyone anything?" she asked softly. "Not the name. Not the legacy. Not the silence."
Adrian rubbed his temple. "He was supposed to be the reckless one. The one I cleaned up after." Alaya touched his hand. "Maybe you should've let him lead."
There was a beat of silence between them. "I want to talk to him," Adrian said quietly. Alaya hesitated. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"I owe him an apology."
"You owe him space," she said. Adrian frowned. "That's not fair."
"No, it's not. None of this is. But Max isn't the same boy in that photo anymore. And you're not the same brother."
"I never meant to hurt him."
"But you did," she said. "And Althea too."
His gaze lowered. "I know." Alaya reached for the photo frame, then carefully laid it face down on the desk.
"Let it sit," she said. "Let it hurt a little. But don't rush to fix it just because you feel guilty." Adrian swallowed hard. "What if he never forgives me?"
"Then you live with it."
That, more than anything, stunned him. She softened her voice. "We were selfish, Adrian. We wanted each other, and we took the easy road. We didn't burn down the house ourselves; but we stood by and watched it happen."
"And Max rebuilt it in his own ridiculous way."
"With a cat with its own bedroom," Alaya said dryly. Adrian almost smiled.
"He's always been that way," Adrian said. "Too loud, too messy, too much. I used to think it was weakness." Alaya looked at him. "And now?" He exhaled. "Now I think he's brave."
There was a long pause.
"I want to talk to Althea too." he clarified. "She deserved more than what we gave her. More than being used as a placeholder."
"She's not ready to hear that yet," Alaya said. "And Max definitely isn't."
"I know."
They sat in silence again. The room dimmed as the sun outside dipped beneath the horizon. The first shadows of evening stretched across the floor.
Alaya stood, walked over to the window, and looked out.
"You regret it, don't you?" Adrian asked.
She turned slowly. "I regret the way we did it. Not us. But the damage? Yes." Adrian nodded, eyes drifting to the photo again, now face down like the truth they'd all tried to ignore.
"I never thought Max would be the one to take the fall," he said.
Alaya crossed her arms. "I know you want to fix it but fixing doesn't always mean apologizing. Sometimes it's understanding. Letting them breathe. Letting them live with the consequences of their choices."
She walked back to him and leaned down, resting her forehead against his. "Let him have this. Let them both have their silence, their space. If you want to apologize, fine. But not now. Not while the wound's still open."
He closed his eyes, nodded once. She kissed his forehead. "And maybe... it's time we stop thinking we deserve forgiveness just because we ask for it."
Adrian didn't reply. He just sat there, surrounded by the quiet echoes of a family that had cracked down the middle. Outside, the world moved on. Traffic hummed. Lights flickered on. Somewhere far away, headlines still whispered about the wedding that wasn't, and the one that was.
But in this room, Adrian finally stopped trying to rewrite the past. And for the first time in days, he let himself sit in the silence and not run from it.
End of Chapter 28.