His Brother's Bride

Chapter Twelve

The night air felt colder than usual, even wrapped in her wool coat. Isla stood on the balcony of her quarters, staring out over the gardens that stretched endlessly into the dark. There was a restlessness in her bones that sleep couldn't mend. The conversation with the mysterious woman replayed in her mind on a cruel loop. That warning. Those names. The implication that Adrian wasn't who he seemed—it wouldn’t let her go.

She hadn't told anyone what she heard. Not even Lilian.

Her eyes flickered to the last message on her phone: Dig deeper.

Someone was watching her and willingly feeding her information... But who was it?

The woman she met in the cafe. If it was actually even her, why was she even doing this?

But it didn't matter because she was going to find out. She had to.

In the east wing’s forgotten library, where most of the estate’s oldest records were kept under layers of dust, Isla flipped through digitized files and old newspaper clippings. She knew she wouldn’t find anything direct—Adrian was too calculated for that. But she looked anyway. Cross-referencing names the woman gave her with any Calloway-adjacent press from the last decade.

It was around midnight when the sound of slow footsteps echoed down the corridor.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know," Cassian’s voice cut through the silence. “If you’re going to dig through secrets, maybe don’t do it in a building wired with Adrian’s security.”

Isla didn’t flinch. She kept her gaze on the screen. “Why are you here?”

“Because you’re going to get yourself killed.”

She turned then, eyes wild, voice sharp. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“You’re sniffing around a world you don’t understand.” He stepped closer. “These people—they don’t leave loose ends. If you keep pushing, they’ll make you one.”

Isla looked up at him and took in his distressed form. He looked like he hadn’t slept—his shirt half-buttoned, jaw tight, and those eyes burning the way they always did when he was scared. Not for himself. For her.

Isla stood slowly, meeting his gaze. “You’re following me.”

It wasn't a question but more of a statement.

“I don’t need to follow you. Julian told Adrian. Adrian told me.” He stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I have to.”

“Isla—”

“I need something,” she interrupted, her voice cracking just enough to betray the calm she tried to maintain. “Something to use. To break this off without ruining my family. Without ruining me.”

Cassian’s expression shifted, the steel in his gaze flickering into something softer. “You’re looking for a way out.”

Her silence said enough.

He stepped closer, their breaths almost mingling. “You don’t have to do it like this. Don’t go to war with Adrian. Not without knowing how many knives he keeps hidden.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she whispered, her legs almost going weak from being in such close proximity with him.

“But I am,” Cassian snapped. “Not because he’s my brother. But because I know what he’s capable of when he feels betrayed.”

There it was. The word.

Betrayal.

Their entire history stained with it.

Cassian’s hands clenched at his sides, as if stopping himself from reaching out. “You want the truth, Isla? Fine. But not like this. Don’t throw yourself into a fire you don’t understand. If you need time, I’ll buy it. If you need help, I’ll get it. But wait. Just wait for me.”

“And what if there isn’t time?”

“Then I’ll make time.”

She searched his face, her heart slamming in her chest. She hated how easily he saw through her, how quickly he unraveled her defenses. But more than that, she hated the flicker of hope rising in her chest.

“I can’t just sit around and play the dutiful fiancée while the walls close in,” she muttered, shaking her head.

He wouldn't understand how it feels to have the walls closing up around you. But she does.

“Then don’t,” Cassian said. “But don’t go alone either.” His voice was rough now, not with anger—but fear. “I know you want to be strong. You always have been. But strength doesn’t mean doing everything alone. It means knowing when to let someone in,” he added.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. The shadows under his eyes. The unspoken regret weighing down his shoulders. The truth was—they were both bleeding from old wounds neither had dared to name.

“I’m not doing this because I want to ruin him,” she said quietly. “I’m doing this because I want to be free.”

Cassian’s gaze darkened. “And you think freedom lies in finding his skeletons?”

“I think freedom lies in truth.”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped closer until there was barely space between them.

And for a moment, it felt like old times. Like rooftop confessions and midnight escapes. Like the version of them that hadn’t been broken by politics, families, and last names.

“If you go down this path,” he said finally, “you can’t turn back. You’ll lose things—pieces of yourself. Pieces of him. Whatever innocence you have left... it won’t survive this.”

She didn’t flinch. “Maybe innocence is a luxury I can’t afford anymore.”

They stood there, suspended between past and future, choices and consequences.

Finally, Cassian stepped back.

“I’ll get what you need,” he said. “But if anything happens to you before I do—”

“You’ll what?” she challenged softly.

“I’ll never forgive myself.”

Isla didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And when he left, she didn’t stop him.

But the moment the door clicked shut, she reached for her phone again.

The truth waited, and she was done waiting for permission.

*****

Across the city, Lilian Graves was having a very different kind of evening.

In her dimly lit apartment downtown, far from the pressures of her family name and the opulence of the Ravenwood-Calloway circles, Lilian finally felt like herself. Here, in this mess of half-finished canvases and wine-stained books, she didn’t have to wear the perfect mask.

Her phone buzzed and she didn't have to look down to know that it was another call from her mother. Without a second thought, she declined the call.

She poured another glass of wine and sat on the floor beside her easel. Her newest painting—a woman in gold armor, surrounded by storm clouds—was still unfinished. Like everything else in her life.

She missed Isla. Missed their late-night rants. The laughter. The reckless freedom before duty came knocking.

A knock sounded on her door and she jerked up in response.

Another knock came, this time louder than the last.

Lilian stood, heart racing, and opened the door—only to see a man in a sleek suit holding an envelope.

“For Lilian Graves,” he said simply.

“Who is it from?” she asked, taking the envelope and turning it in her hands.

The man didn’t answer, just turned and walked away.

Lilian stared at the envelope, then closed the door. Once she was inside, she opened and frowned as she pulled out a photograph.

Isla. At the edge of the city in a cafe talking to a woman in a red coat.

And beneath it was a note:

“She’s getting too close. Keep her in line. Or we will.”

Lilian’s breath caught. She sat down slowly, her heart thundering.

What the f**k?