THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 5: OLD WOUNDS

POV : Isla

I can't sleep.

It's 2:47 a.m., and I'm staring at the ceiling of my new bedroom—Adrian's guest bedroom—watching shadows from the city lights dance across the pristine white paint. The bed is comfortable, the sheets are probably worth more than my entire wardrobe used to be, and the room is perfectly temperature-controlled.

And I can't sleep.

Maybe it's the unfamiliarity of the space. Maybe it's the lingering anxiety from dinner at the Blackwell estate—three hours of Victoria's thinly veiled hostility and Richard's cold dismissal while Adrian sat rigid beside me, his hand occasionally finding mine under the table like an anchor.

Or maybe it's because I'm living with Adrian Blackwell, wearing his ring, and pretending this is all perfectly normal when nothing about this is normal.

I give up on sleep and pad out to the kitchen in my pajamas—old yoga pants and a Columbia t-shirt that used to be Sophie's. The apartment is dark except for the city glow through the windows, and I'm careful to be quiet as I search the cabinets for tea.

"Can't sleep?"

I jump, nearly dropping the mug I've just pulled down.

Adrian is sitting in the darkened living room, barely visible in a leather chair by the windows. He's still in his dress pants and white shirt from dinner, tie discarded, sleeves rolled up, holding a glass of what's probably very expensive scotch.

"You scared me," I say, hand over my racing heart.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to."

"What are you doing sitting in the dark?"

"Thinking. You?"

"Making tea. Want some?"

He looks at his scotch, then at me. "Actually, yes."

I make two cups of chamomile—finding the tea bags in a cabinet that looks like it's never been opened—and join him by the windows. The city sprawls below us, millions of lights, millions of lives, all unaware that we're up here pretending to be something we're not.

I hand him the mug and curl up in the chair beside his, tucking my feet under me.

"Tonight was..." I start.

"Terrible. You can say it."

"I was going to say 'intense,' but terrible works too."

He sips his tea, makes a face like it's not scotch. "My family has that effect."

"Your mom really doesn't like me."

"She doesn't like anyone who threatens her control. It's not personal."

"It felt pretty personal when she asked if I'd signed a prenup yet."

Adrian's jaw tightens. "She had no right—"

"It's fine. It's a fair question, actually. I would wonder too, if I were her."

"You're nothing like her."

"Is that a compliment?"

"The highest I can give."

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping tea that neither of us really wants, avoiding whatever conversation we're dancing around.

"Thank you," I say finally. "For tonight. For defending me. For..." I gesture vaguely. "Everything."

"You don't need to thank me."

"I do, though. You didn't have to step in every time your mother made a comment. You didn't have to hold my hand under the table when I was panicking. You didn't have to—"

"Isla." He sets down his mug, turns to face me fully. "I'm not going to let anyone treat you badly. Family or not. We're in this together, remember?"

"Together," I echo, the word feeling weighted with meaning I'm not sure either of us is ready to examine.

His eyes hold mine for a long moment, and I'm struck again by how unfair it is that he's so handsome. Even exhausted, even sad, even sitting in the dark drinking tea he clearly doesn't want—he's devastating.

"I'm sorry if tonight was hard," he says quietly. "I know my family can be... difficult."

"That's a diplomatic way of putting it."

"What would you call it?"

"Toxic? Dysfunctional? The kind of family that makes you understand why some people run away and never look back?"

His expression darkens. "Sophie used to say the same thing."

And there it is. The name we've been avoiding all night. All week, really, since this arrangement started.

Sophie.

My best friend. His little sister. The person who connected us and the ghost that haunts every conversation we have.

"Can I ask you something?" I venture carefully.

"Yes."

"Why haven't you mentioned her? Since I moved in, we've talked about everything except the one person who actually matters in all this."

Adrian is quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then he stands abruptly, moving to the windows, his back to me.

"Because it hurts too much," he says, so quietly I almost miss it. "Because every time I look at you, I see her. Because you were her best friend and I failed to protect her and now I'm—" He stops, jaw working. "I'm what? Playing house with you? Using you to assuage my guilt? I don't even know anymore."

The raw honesty in his voice breaks something open in my chest.

I set down my tea and go to him, standing beside him at the window. Below us, a taxi weaves through late-night traffic. Somewhere, people are living normal lives with normal problems.

"You didn't fail her," I say.

"I did."

"Adrian—"

"We argued. The night she died, we argued about her trust fund, her boyfriend, her choices. I told her she was being irresponsible. Reckless. I said—" His voice cracks. "I said she needed to grow up and that I was done cleaning up her messes."

"You didn't mean it."

"Didn't I? I was so angry with her, Isla. So frustrated. She was brilliant and talented and she kept throwing it away on terrible men and stupid decisions, and I just wanted her to be better. To be more careful. To be—"

"To be like you."

He flinches. "Yes."

"That's not who she was."

"I know. I know that now. But that night, I was so caught up in being right, in being the responsible older brother, that I didn't see how much I was hurting her." He turns to me, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "She left angry. She got in her car angry. And she died angry at me."

"She didn't die angry at you," I say firmly. "Sophie loved you more than anything. She was frustrated with you, sure. But she loved you."

"How do you know?"

"Because she told me. All the time. She'd complain about your overbearing tendencies and your control issues and your inability to express emotions like a normal human being." A watery laugh escapes me. "But she always said you were the best person she knew. That underneath all the ice, you had the biggest heart."

Adrian's composure finally cracks. A single tear slides down his cheek, and he swipes at it roughly, like he's angry at himself for showing weakness.

"I miss her," he whispers. "Every day. Every moment. I keep expecting to hear her voice, her laugh. Keep expecting her to burst through the door with some new crisis for me to solve. And she's just... gone."

"I know. I miss her too."

And then I'm crying too, and we're both standing there in the dark, crying for the girl we loved, the sister and friend who left too soon, too violently, too unfairly.

Without thinking, I reach for Adrian's hand. He grips it like a lifeline, his fingers threading through mine, and we stand there together, mourning.

"Tell me something about her," Adrian says after a while. "Something I don't know. Something that was just yours."

I think about all the memories I have of Sophie. Late-night study sessions that turned into philosophical debates. Road trips singing off-key to terrible pop songs. The time she convinced me to crash a frat party dressed as characters from The Great Gatsby. Her laugh—loud and infectious and impossible to ignore.

"She was terrified of butterflies," I say.

Adrian blinks. "What?"

"Butterflies. Completely irrational fear. We went to the Butterfly Conservatory once, and she had a full panic attack. Couldn't handle the way they flew at her face." I smile through my tears. "She made me promise never to tell anyone because it was 'the least intimidating thing to be afraid of.'"

"I had no idea."

"She had a lot of secrets. Good ones, though. The kind that made her interesting."

"Tell me more."

So I do.

I tell him about Sophie's terrible cooking attempts, about how she once set off the fire alarm making toast. About her secret love for trashy reality TV, which she'd never admit to anyone but me. About the time she got a tattoo in Prague and was terrified to tell her parents, so she kept it hidden for two years.

"She had a tattoo?" Adrian looks shocked.

"A tiny moon behind her right ear. You really never noticed?"

"I... no. She kept her hair down mostly, and I wasn't exactly looking."

"She got it because she said the moon was constant. Even when you couldn't see it, it was there. She liked the idea of something steady in her chaotic life."

Adrian's grip on my hand tightens. "Show me. I have pictures. I could look and—"

"I have one. Of the tattoo. She sent it to me right after she got it." I pull out my phone, scroll through old messages until I find it. Sophie, grinning at the camera, hair pulled up, the tiny crescent moon visible behind her ear.

Adrian stares at the photo for a long time, his thumb hovering over the screen like he wants to touch her but can't.

"She looks happy," he says quietly.

"She was. That was a good day. A really good day."

We move back to the chairs, but this time we sit on the couch together, my phone between us, scrolling through pictures of Sophie. I tell him stories for each one. The context he missed, the moments he wasn't there for. The private Sophie that only I got to see.

"This one," he says, stopping on a photo of Sophie and me at graduation. "I remember taking this."

"You were grumpy about it. Said we were taking too long."

"I was not grumpy."

"You absolutely were. You had that face you get when you're annoyed but trying to be polite."

"I don't have a face."

"You completely have a face. You're making it right now."

He tries to look serious, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

"She was so proud that day," I say, looking at the photo. Sophie in her cap and gown, arm around me, both of us laughing at something. "She kept saying she couldn't believe she actually graduated, that she was convinced she'd somehow fail her last exam and have to come back."

"She was always like that. Convinced she was failing when she was actually excelling."

"Imposter syndrome. She never felt good enough, no matter what she accomplished."

"I didn't help with that." Adrian's voice goes quiet again. "Always pushing her, always expecting more. I thought I was motivating her. I was just making her feel inadequate."

"Adrian, no. She knew you loved her. She knew you were proud of her, even when you didn't say it."

"Did she? Because I'm not sure I ever told her. Not directly. I was always so focused on what came next, what she needed to improve, what she could be doing better. I don't think I ever just told her I was proud of the person she already was."

"She knew," I insist, even as my own doubt creeps in. Did she? Did Sophie really know how much her brother loved her, or did she die thinking she'd disappointed him?

"I should have told her," Adrian says. "I should have said it out loud. 'I'm proud of you. I love you. You're enough exactly as you are.' Why didn't I say those things?"

"Because you're emotionally constipated and terrible at expressing feelings?"

He looks at me, startled, and then—impossibly—he laughs. A real laugh, rough and surprised and genuine.

"Emotionally constipated?"

"Sophie's words, not mine. Well, mostly hers. I may have agreed with her."

"Of course you did."

We're both smiling now, despite the tears, despite the pain. And sitting here with Adrian, sharing memories of Sophie, it feels like she's here with us somehow. Like we're honoring her by remembering her fully—the messy, beautiful, complicated person she was.

"Thank you," Adrian says eventually. "For this. For sharing her with me. I've been so alone in my grief, and I—" He stops, swallows hard. "I needed this. Needed you."

The words hang in the air between us, loaded with meaning.

"I needed this too," I admit. "I haven't been able to talk about her. Not really. Everyone wants to move on, wants me to 'process' and 'heal,' but I just wanted to remember her. To keep her alive in the remembering."

"We can do that. Together. You can tell me stories whenever you want. I want to know all of them. Every moment I missed, every secret she kept. I want to know my sister the way you knew her."

"Okay," I whisper. "I'd like that."

His hand is still holding mine. I'm not sure when that happened, when we went from standing separately at the window to sitting close on the couch, fingers intertwined, sharing grief and memories and something else I'm afraid to name.

"Isla?" His voice is soft, careful.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're here. In this apartment, in this arrangement. I know it's complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea, but I'm glad it's you."

My heart does something acrobatic and painful in my chest.

"I'm glad it's you too," I say, and mean it more than I should.

We sit there for a long time, watching the city slowly wake up, talking about Sophie, about grief, about all the ways we've both been trying to survive the loss of someone who mattered so much.

And somewhere around dawn, I fall asleep on Adrian's couch, my head on his shoulder, our hands still clasped together.

When I wake up a few hours later, there's a blanket draped over me and a note on the coffee table in Adrian's precise handwriting:

Had an early meeting. Didn't want to wake you. There's coffee in the kitchen. Thank you for last night. —A

I hold the note like it's something precious, something to be protected, and realize with creeping dread that this fake engagement is starting to feel dangerously real.

At least to me.