When She Learned My Name

19. Confession

“Gray…you know this…all of us have been together since I was eight and you guys were thirteen!! And…and…me and him…uh…just a little closer…”

Gray stops dead in his tracks. The sharp, accusatory tension in his posture snaps, replaced by absolute, stupefied silence. He stares down at her, his mouth opening slightly as his brain violently attempts to process the linguistic gymnastics of “just a little closer.”

"A little closer?" Gray repeats, his voice cracking on the octave. He lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his dark hair as he paces back toward the desk. "Gabby, you look like you just confessed to embezzling the entire corporate treasury with a smile on your face.

'A little closer' doesn't cover whatever secret alliance, psychological hostage situation, or whatever the hell else has been happening between you and Fernando for the past week!"

He pivots back around, planting his hands on the back of the chair opposite her, leaning in so his eyes lock onto hers with a mixture of brotherly panic and sheer, unadulterated exasperation.

"Do you have any idea who he is?" Gray demands, though the fierce anger has dissolved into a helpless, frantic disbelief.

"He runs an underground syndicate that cleans up bloodbaths so we can sleep in nice beds, Gabby! He's not some corporate suit from downtown; he's a apex predator who looks at people like chess pieces. And you're... you're sitting here telling me you're close to him?"

He stops, his gaze dropping to her white-knuckled grip still twisting her sleeves, and the sudden, terrifying truth of it finally hits him full force.

"Wait," Gray whispers, his eyes widening in horror as the pieces click together. "You're serious. It’s not just business. You and Fernando... since when? How long has this been happening behind my back?"

“Hic…don’t yell…hic…I don’t know how long…hic…”

The sharp, defensive edge in Gray’s voice instantly evaporates the second the first ragged hiccup slips past her lips.

The fierce, pacing older brother vanishes, leaving only the boy who used to share a fence and a backyard with her. His shoulders drop, the rigid anger draining out of him, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of panic at the sight of her trembling hands and the familiar, defeated hitch in her breath.

"Hey—no, no, Gabby, don't," Gray mutters, abandoning his post across the room in three long strides. He drops down onto one knee right in front of her chair, his hands coming up to gently catch hers, trying to pry her white-knuckled fingers away from the abused fabric of her sleeves before she tears the seams right out.

"I'm not yelling. I'm just... I'm panicked," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a rough, soothing register as he looks up into her wet, wide eyes. "Jesus, Gabby. Fernando Blake? The guy whose idea of a fun afternoon when we were thirteen was meticulously disassembling a hunting rifle while we ate ice cream?"

A faint, watery huff of a laugh escapes her through a suppressed hiccup, and Gray takes it as a small victory, offering a weak, lopsided smile of his own as he rubs his thumbs soothingly over her knuckles.

"I just... I worry about you," Gray continues softly, the raw, protective instinct of an older brother softening every sharp angle of his face. "VALCOR, the syndicate, the board meetings—it’s all a mess. And now my best friend, the guy who practically owns half the shadows in this city, has his sights set on my little sister. How am I supposed to process that over breakfast?"

He shakes his head slowly, a helpless sigh slipping past his lips as he gives her hands one last reassuring squeeze before standing back up, though he stays close, leaning against the edge of the mahogany table beside her.

"Does he... does he treat you right?" Gray asks, the question dragging out of him like pulling teeth, clearly tasting like ash in his mouth even as he forces himself to ask it. "When it's just the two of you... is he actually taking care of you, Gabby?"

After her small nodded.

Gray lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds like half of the air in his lungs has just been released. He runs a hand down his face, dragging it over his jaw before looking back down at her with a wry, utterly defeated shake of his head.

"God help me," Gray mutters, though the sharp edge of his earlier panic is entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, resigned acceptance of his new, terrifying reality. He reaches out, giving her shoulder a reassuring, firm squeeze. "If he ever gives you even a single reason to cry like this again, syndicate or no syndicate, I’m walking straight into Blake Tower and feeding him his own cufflinks."

A watery, genuine laugh slips past her lips, and Gray offers a small, affectionate smirk in return before stepping back and straightening his jacket.

"Alright. Go wash your face before Dad sees you looking like you just survived a war zone," Gray says, gesturing toward the adjoining washroom with a gentle nod.

"And... for the record? We are definitely going to need a lot more Milo to talk about this later."