Cyrus
The moment I step into her room, I can’t breathe.
Not because of the girl crying on the hospital bed. No. I’ve seen Chloe cry before. I’ve seen her fake it. Weaponize it. But this time, it’s different. Real. Pathetic.
The room smells like sterile sheets and lemon soap, and something faintly sour beneath it—shame.
And still, all I can think about is her.
Not Chloe.
Her.
Saoirse.
The name feels like a splinter under my tongue.
“You lied,” I say, voice low, calm, dangerous.
Chloe flinches but doesn’t answer.
“You know what that lie could’ve done, right?” I press, stepping forward, shadows curling around me. “You could’ve destroyed my brother’s reputation. For what?”
Still nothing. Just the soft sniffle of guilt or manipulation—I can’t tell which.
“You didn’t even tell Rhazi
