Entangled Roots

Chapter Thirteen: The Mask of the Heir

While the atmosphere of the Vane estate had thawed into a deceptive spring, the air around Nathan remained arctic. To his parents and his grandfather, he played the part of the reformed, supportive brother. He sat in the library with Lily, his textbooks spread out, occasionally asking her to clarify a complex theorem. To anyone watching, it looked like a scene of familial harmony. But Lily, who had spent fifteen years studying the micro-expressions of the boy she loved, could feel the jagged edges of his resentment vibrating beneath his skin.

Nathan’s dislike for Lily had not vanished; it had merely evolved. It was no longer the loud, impulsive rage of a child; it had deepened into a cold, calculated loathing. He saw the way his mother, Eleanor, now brought Lily tea and stroked her hair. He saw the way his father looked at Lily with a newfound respect, as if she were a valuable stock that had suddenly tripled in price. To Nathan, every act of kindness shown to Lily was a direct theft from his own inheritance of affection.

"You're staring at the page, Nathan," Lily said softly, her voice cautious. "The derivative is on the next line."

Nathan’s grip on his fountain pen tightened until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He didn't look up. "I know where the derivative is, Lily. I don't need you to narrate my own thoughts. Just because Grandfather thinks you're the second coming of Einstein doesn't mean I've forgotten who you are."

Lily flinched, the warmth she had felt from "Mommy Vane’s" earlier kindness beginning to evaporate. "I was just trying to help. We’re supposed to be doing this together."

"Together," Nathan spat the word like it was bitter. He finally looked at her, and for a split second, the mask slipped. His eyes weren't just angry; they were hollow with a profound, dark envy. "We are only 'together' because it’s convenient for the family brand. Don't mistake my parents' pragmatism for genuine love. They want your brain, Lily. They don't want you. And the more you show off, the more you remind me that you're nothing but a parasite who learned how to perform."

The cruelty was so precise that Lily felt the air leave her lungs. She wanted to believe he was just stressed about the National Exams, but the depth of the venom in his voice was undeniable. He didn't just want to win; he wanted her to be nothing.

"I'm not a parasite," she whispered, her eyes burning.

"Aren't you?" Nathan leaned closer, his voice a low, terrifying drawl. "You live in my house, you eat my food, and now you’re trying to steal my place in my own father’s eyes. You think scoring a few points higher on a test makes you a Vane? It just makes you a more expensive ward. Remember that when we get to Imperial. You can have the grades, but I own the name."

He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair back with a harsh clatter that echoed through the silent library. He didn't offer a hand or a kind word. He simply walked out, leaving Lily alone in the vast, cold room.

Upstairs, Eleanor Vane watched from the landing, a frown marring her elegant features. She had hoped Nathan would follow her lead, that he would see the benefit of having Lily as a partner. But as she watched her son’s rigid, angry silhouette disappear into his room, she realized that the bridge she was trying to build was being burned from both ends.

Nathan retreated to his balcony, lighting a cigarette—a habit he kept hidden from his father. As the smoke curled into the night air, he watched the lights of Beijing in the distance. He wasn't thinking about the exams. He was thinking about the four years of university ahead. He would keep his mask on in front of the Elders, he would play the 'power couple' game if he had to, but he would make sure that every step Lily took toward success felt like treading on broken glass.

His dislike had become a silent, permanent fixture of his soul. Lily was no longer just a shadow he had to tolerate; she was a rival he had to crush. And the worst part for Lily was that she still looked at the closed library door, hoping he would come back and tell her he didn't mean it. She was still a prisoner of her own heart, even as the man who held the key was busy sharpening it into a blade.