The Greenhouse Meeting
800 Words
The greenhouse smelled like jasmine—and something darker, something sour Elena could only name as betrayal.
She got there at 1:47 p.m. Thirteen minutes early, as always. Old habits die hard. She liked to scan the place before the person she was meeting arrived.
Sunlight hit the glass walls, turning them foggy with steam. Every inch was covered in tropical plants—orchids, ferns, a monstera so big, you could hide a body behind it. Then again, considering who she was meeting, maybe that wasn’t a metaphor.
She picked a bench near the back exit, her back tight against the wall. Watched the door. Waited.
Right on time—2:00 p.m. He walked in.
Julian Cross.
He could’ve been Damian’s twin. Well, he actually was. Same height, same cheekbones, same eyes the color of storm clouds.
But while Damian always felt like the sharp edge of winter, Julian almost seemed soft. Open. Like you could tell him a secret and he’d keep it. He smiled when he spotted her. Friendly, almost—but his eyes didn’t match his mouth.
“Lena.” His voice was lighter than Damian’s, almost melodic. “You came.”
“It’s Elena.”
“Not to me.” He sat across from her, like this was just catching up with an old friend. “You’ll always be Lena to me. The woman who loved me first.”
Her heart stuttered. “I loved Damian.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “Did you? Or did Damian tell you that?”
“I have a locket,” she shot back. “A photograph. A bench with our initials carved in the wood.”
Julian leaned back, casual in a way that set her teeth on edge. “All planted. Damian’s good at that—filling in details, making you believe. Planting evidence is his genius.”
“Prove it.”
He slipped a hand into his jacket. Elena’s whole body tensed. He just pulled out a phone. Unlocked it. Swiped through a few photos, handed it over.
She looked.
A wedding photo. She recognized the beach, the locket. The soft press of lips against her temple. But the man wasn’t Damian. It was Julian.
“He showed you a photo like this, right?” Julian’s voice was softer now. “Told you it was him. But that’s all Damian does—he takes what’s mine, and twists it.”
Elena’s hands started to shake. “This could be fake. Photoshop exists.”
He shrugged, took the phone back. “Maybe. But your nightmares—locked doors, fire—it’s not Photoshop. You dream because you remember. Damian wasn’t the one who pulled you out, Lena.”
Her voice sounded small. “Then who was?”
Julian leaned forward, his knee barely brushing hers. She didn’t move.
“Damian locked you in,” he said quietly. “He set the fire. I got you out.”
Suddenly, everything tilted, like her stomach had dropped right through the floor.
“No,” she breathed.
“Yes.” His hand covered hers. Heat. Steady pressure. “I’ve looked for you for ten years, Lena. Tried to keep you safe. Tried to keep Damian from finding you. But he’s got more money than me. More power. Now you’re back in his house—in his world, his lies—”
“Stop.”
“He’s going to kill you. Not because he hates you. Because you saw what he did.”
She pulled her hand away. Stood. Took a few steps toward the door, but didn’t leave. Not yet.
“If you’re telling the truth,” she said, wondering if her voice would c***k, “why didn’t you just go to the police?”
His answer dropped like a stone. “Because I’m not clean, either. Damian made me do things. Things I can’t excuse. We’re twins, Lena. Same DNA. Same guilt.”
“So you’re both monsters.”
Julian stood up, came close. Not touching her, but she could feel his breath, the gravity of him.
“I’m the monster who loves you. He’s the one who wants you dead.”
She turned to face him. Suddenly, the space between them felt razor-thin.
“I don’t know who to trust,” she said. Truth, simple and terrible.
He stepped back, fished a key out of his pocket. Old, brass, heavy with secrets. He handed it to her.
“This opens a safety deposit box at First Metropolitan. Everything I have on Damian is inside—bank records, witness statements, a confession.”
“A confession to what?”
His look changed. All the warmth slipped away, just for a moment. All that was left was something vast and raw and ancient.
“To killing our parents.”
- Writer
