The Blood Between Us

CHAPTER ONE (1) The clock struck half past six as I sat stiffly on the edge of a Victorian chaise in my father’s drawing room—a space so ornate it felt more like a museum than a place people actually lived. Gilded portraits of long-dead ancestors stared down like they had opinions, and the chandelier overhead gleamed like it was in on the judgment. Everything smelled faintly of polished mahogany and tension. My mother sat on the sofa across from me, perfectly composed with a delicate china teacup in her hand, though she hadn’t taken a sip of its content in minutes. My father stood by the fireplace, one hand gripping the mantle like he might c***k it in half, his gaze pinning me in place with silent disapproval. And next to him was Julian—my younger brother—trying too hard to mimic our father’s stiff posture, arms crossed like he had any authority. “You’re not getting any younger, Evelyn,” my mother finally said, setting the cup down on its saucer with a soft clink. “And this relationship with that... consultant—” “Kieran,” I cut in, sharply than I had intended. “Yes. Kieran,” she repeated, like the name left a bitter taste in her mouth. “It’s just not a suitable match. You need someone who understands your world.” I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my cool. “He does understand me. More than anyone ever has.” My father scoffed. “He doesn’t come from a proper family. What do you really know about his background? His finances?” “He’s heading a major NeuroCore project in Eastmere,” I said, my voice rising. “That’s hardly some backstreet gig. He’s brilliant, honest, kind—shouldn’t that be enough?” “It would be,” Julian said with a shrug, “if this were a fairy tale. But it’s not. You’re a Whitmore. That comes with expectations.” “Expectations or shackles?” I muttered. Before anyone could respond, the butler appeared at the door. “Apologies for the interruption, sir. Mr. Callan Rhodes is here.” My blood turned cold. I hadn’t heard that name in weeks—and I’d been hoping I never would again. “Show him in,” my father said, clearly pleased. Callan entered like he owned the place, all smooth confidence and expensive tailoring. He looked every inch the poster boy for my parents’ ideal son-in-law. Sharp cheekbones, slicked-back hair, and a smug smile that made my skin crawl. “Eve,” he said, all charm. Like he wasn't aware that I never really liked him. “It’s been too long.” I stood up so quickly the hem of my skirt caught on the armrest. “You invited him here?” I looked at my parents in disbelief. “You decided this for me?” Mother stood quickly, trying to keep me calm. “Darling, we just thought—” “No. You never think about what I want.” My voice cracked, fury rising within me.“This is my life. And I love Kieran.” My father’s eyes darkened. “Love doesn’t pay the bills, Evelyn.” “I don’t need your money,” I snapped. “And I don’t need your approval either.” Julian muttered something under his breath, but I was already heading for the door, my eyes burning. “Evelyn Whitmore, do not walk away—!” My father roared. But I didn’t stop. I didn’t even look back. Even when my mother called after me, and Callan tried to sound calm and reasonable, I just kept going. Down the hallway. Out the double doors. Into my car. I didn’t cry—not yet. I drove straight to Kieran’s place—the one tucked away on a quiet Eastmere street that felt more like home than the mansion I grew up in ever had. By the time I pulled into his driveway, the sky was dipped in gold, and the last light of day was softening everything it touched. My heart was racing—not from panic, but from need. I needed him. His calm voice. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered. I let myself in with the spare key he gave me. The house smelled like cedarwood and fresh coffee—warm, comforting. I found him in the study. The door was left ajar, and there he was, sitting at his desk, brow furrowed as he clicked through files and tapped at his laptop. His navy shirt hugged his frame, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexed as he worked. The lamplight threw soft shadows across his face. Even in concentration, when he's lost in deep thoughts, he wasbeautiful. He looked up—and just like that, everything in him shifted. His eyes softened, his mouth curved into that smile that always undid me. “You’re here,” he said, rising immediately, setting the files aside. “You noticed,” I said, smiling faintly as I stepped inside. “Of course I noticed. I always do.” He came toward me and gently brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I said rather too quickly. “I just… needed to see you.” He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Then let me take you somewhere. What do you say I drive us to Clearwater Ridge?” I blinked. “Right now?” “Right now. You love it there. It’ll help clear your mind.” I hesitated, but the idea started to feel right. There was something I needed to tell him—something important—and that quiet, windswept cliff felt like the perfect place to say it. Ten minutes later, we were on the road. His fingers brushed mine on the gearshift, just for a second, then returned to the wheel. Clearwater Ridge was about half an hour away—past rolling fields and sun-drenched hills, where the cliffside bloomed with wildflowers and the ocean breeze always felt like freedom. As we drove, Kieran glanced at me. “Remember that café?” I smiled. “How could I forget?” “I was having the worst day,” he said, laughing. “Then this whirlwind of a woman ran straight into me and soaked my shirt in coffee.” I laughed for real this time. “You were so calm. I was waiting for you to yell.” “And scare off the most beautiful disaster I’d ever seen? Never.” He went on, telling the story of our second meeting at The Strand Bookstore, the one during a downpour, when we’d stood near the philosophy section for what felt like hours, talking about everything and nothing. He teased me about how I’d corrected his quote from Rilke and how I wouldn’t give him my number until he spelled ‘Kierkegaard’ right. "Yeah, that was four months ago. How on earth could I forget," I found myself saying to Kieran. We laughed, wrapped in the warmth of shared memories, like the past hour hadn’t happened at all. Then suddenly, his smile faded. “Something’s off,” he murmured, eyes narrowing and tightening his grip on the wheel. “The steering’s loose.” I looked over, alarmed. “What do you mean, loose?” Kieran’s jaw tightened. He tested the steering wheel again, his knuckles white. The car veered slightly even as he tried to steady it. “I had it checked two days ago,” he muttered. “Something’s—” He didn’t finish the sentence, when we suddenly hit the bend. A narrow curve through the cliffs of Clearwater, framed by nothing but jagged rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other. The familiar stretch that usually brought peace now pulsed with danger. The wheel locked. “Kieran!” I screamed. He fought to control it, with every muscle tense and eyes locked on the road, but the car didn’t respond. Suddenly something snapped beneath us. We skidded sideways, tires shrieking. My seatbelt yanked me back just as the guardrail came into view—and then shattered. The world tilted. Metal shrieked. Glass exploded. And then—nothing. Just darkness.