Chapter 15 The warehouse door bangs open, the sound echoing off concrete walls like a gunshot. My heart lurches inside my chest as they enter-Arson first, his body coiled tight like a predator ready to strike. The tailored clothes-my clothes-hang on him wrong, like a costume that can't quite hide the animal beneath. But it's Lilian's body language that makes my blood run cold. She follows him, one step behind, her face drained of color, eyes vacant and hollow. She looks like a corpse walking-something vital ripped out of her, leaving just the shell. "What the fuck happened?" I demand, moving toward them before I can stop myself. My hands itch to touch her, to check for injuries, to pull her against me, but I hold back. The memory of finding her in his bed, in his arms, claws at my insides like a living thing. "Patricia happened," Arson spits, his voice scraped raw with rage. "And that fucking butcher Winters." "I'm fine," Lilian says, though the lie is so obvious it's almost painful to hear. Her voice is flat, dead. "Just...tired." "Bullshit," I counter, studying her face. Something's changed in her-something harder, sharper, like glass that's been shattered and put back together wrong. "Tell me what happened. All of it." Arson yanks off his jacket-my jacket-and hurls it onto a chair with enough force to make it slide. "They've got a medical power of attorney. Signed on her eighteenth birthday. Gives Patricia complete fucking control over her healthcare decisions." "What?" The word rips from my throat. "How the hell is that possible?" "She buried it in the trust fund paperwork," Lilian explains, collapsing onto the couch like her legs can't hold her anymore. She looks small, fragile, crushed by the weight of betrayal. "The inheritance from my father. I signed without reading. Stupid, I know." "Not stupid," I say automatically, feeling protective fury rise in my chest. "Trusting. There's a difference." Arson makes a sound like a dog choking on something bitter. "In the Hayes family? Fuck no, there isn't." I ignore him, focusing on Lilian, on the way her hands tremble slightly as she tucks her hair behind her ear. "What else? What do they want?" "They've scheduled some 'procedure' for next Friday," she says, pressing her fingers against her temples like she's trying to keep her skull from splitting open. "Won't tell me exactly what it is, just that it's supposedly going to fix my heart condition permanently." "You don't believe them." Not a question. I know her well enough-the set of her jaw, the slight narrowing of her eyes-to see the skepticism burning beneath the exhaustion. "The doctor let something slip," Arson interjects, stalking back and forth like a tiger in a cage too small. His footsteps echo off the concrete, marking time like a metronome counting down to disaster. "Said something about 'donors' being ready, then caught himself. Went white as a sheet when he realized what he'd said." A chill slithers down my spine, cold and sick. "No, I took it as donors to the research, money donors, to fund whatever they are trying to create, using Lilian as the guinea pig." "We need to find out more," Lilian says, her voice stronger now, edged with determination that cuts through her exhaustion. "But whatever it is, they're planning to do it with or without my consent. The power of attorney makes sure of that." The implications sink in slowly, each one more grotesque than the last. Medical procedures. Donations. Legal control over her body. It sounds like something from a horror movie, not the family I grew up in. Yet even as the thought forms, I know it's naive. I've spent the last few months chained in a concrete cell, courtesy of my own twin brother. Nothing should surprise me anymore. "We've got a week," Arson says, stopping by the window. The fading daylight carves harsh shadows across his face-my face, but twisted with a darkness I recognize in my worst moments, in my darkest thoughts. "Seven days to figure out what sick shit they're planning and how to stop it. Not to mention the five days left we have to bring down Richard." "And to find out more about my father," Lilian adds, her voice smaller now, more vulnerable. "Your father?" I turn to her, caught off guard. "David? Why bring him up now?" "Because whatever's happening now, I think it might be connected to him somehow," she explains, eyes fixed on some distant point, seeing ghosts. "He died when I was so young, right after my diagnosis. Well, left first. Then...car accident, I think. Mother's always been vague about the details." "With good reason, probably," Arson mutters, his lips curling in a sneer. "Ten to one he either knew too much or didn't agree with whatever fucked-up thing they were planning, so they found a way to make him disappear." "Or he really did die in that car accident like your mother said," I suggest, repeating the story Patricia had told over the years. Even as I say it, doubt curdles in my stomach. "Not everything is a conspiracy." Arson snorts, the sound dripping with contempt. "Do you really believe that shit? After everything we've learned about the family and their lies?" "I'm saying we shouldn't jump to conclusions," I reply, frustration building like a pressure cooker about to blow. "Not everyone is part of some grand conspiracy." "No, just the people who matter," he fires back, each word a bullet aimed at my chest. "Just the ones making decisions about Lilian's life, her health, her future. Just the ones who kept me locked away for years while you lived the golden fucking life." And there it is-the raw, festering wound between us, the poisoned root from which all our conflicts grow. "I didn't know about you," I remind him, my voice taking on the razor edge that seems reserved exclusively for these confrontations. "I didn't choose any of this." "Didn't you?" He steps closer, eyes-my eyes-burning with an accusation that feels like acid. "You've been the perfect Hayes heir for years. Never questioning, never pushing back. Just following Richard's blueprint like the good little soldier you are." "You don't know a damn thing about me or the choices I've made," I snap, hands curling into fists so tight my nails cut into my palms. "You've been watching from the shadows, building your little revenge fantasy, thinking you understand everything when you⁠-" "STOP IT!" Lilian's voice explodes between us, raw and cracked with emotion. "Both of you, just stop!" We turn to her, twin expressions of surprise quickly replaced by concern as we take in her face-flushed with anger, eyes bright with tears that refuse to fall. She looks seconds away from shattering. "I can't deal with this right now," she continues, pushing herself up from the couch, swaying slightly with exhaustion. "My mother has legal control over my body. Donors are waiting for the results of some mysterious procedure they want to perform on me. My entire life has been a carefully constructed lie, and you two want to stand here measuring dicks over who had it worse?" The vulgarity, so jarring coming from her usually careful mouth, hits us both like a slap. "I'm going to bed," she announces, moving toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. "Feel free to continue tearing each other apart, but do it somewhere I can't hear you." She stalks away, shoulders rigid with tension, leaving us staring after her, momentarily united in our shock at her outburst. The bedroom door slams, the sound reverberating through the warehouse like a gunshot. "Well fucking done," Arson says after a moment, the sarcasm cutting enough to draw blood. "Me? You're the one who⁠-" I stop myself, recognizing the trap we're falling into again. This endless cycle of blame and counter-blame, this vicious merry-go-round of hatred and resentment. It accomplishes nothing and helps no one-least of all Lilian. "This isn't helping," I say instead, running a hand through my hair, tugging at it hard enough to hurt. "She needs us unified, not at each other's throats." Something shifts in Arson's expression-not softening, exactly, but a fractional easing of the constant hostility, like a predator deciding to postpone a kill rather than abandon it. "For once, we agree." We stand in awkward silence for a moment, neither knowing quite how to proceed in this fragile truce. The air between us feels electrified, charged with the potential for violence. Finally, Arson breaks the silence with a sigh that sounds like it's being dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. "I'm going to order food," he says, pulling out his phone. "She hasn't eaten since breakfast." "Pizza," I say automatically. "Margherita with extra basil. It's her favorite, and after everything, she could use some good comfort food." He gives me a look I can't quite interpret-surprise, perhaps, that I know this detail, or irritation that I knew it before him. His jaw tightens, but all he says is, "Fine. Pizza it is." While he makes the call, I move toward the bedroom where Lilian has retreated. I pause at the door, uncertain of my welcome after her outburst. After a moment's hesitation, I knock softly, the sound barely audible even to me. "Lilian? It's me." No answer. I try again, a little louder, tamping down the surge of anxiety her silence triggers. "Lilian? Can I come in?" "It's not locked." Her voice is muffled through the door, heavy with exhaustion and something else-something that sounds like defeat. I enter cautiously to find her curled on her side on the bed, facing away from the door. She doesn't turn when I approach, but I can see the tension in her shoulders and the way her hand grips the pillow in a white-knuckled fist, like it's the only thing keeping her from floating away. "I'm sorry," I say, perching on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under my weight. "About the arguing. About all of it." "I know," she replies, her voice small and scraped raw. "I just can't be the referee right now. I don't have the energy." "You shouldn't have to be," I agree, tentatively reaching out to touch her shoulder. When she doesn't pull away, I grow bolder, letting my hand slide up to her hair. "We're supposed to be helping you, not adding to your burden." She makes a small sound, something between acknowledgment and pain, but leans into my touch ever so slightly. Encouraged, I begin to comb my fingers through her hair, the way I used to when she'd have anxiety attacks during thunderstorms. The soft strands slide between my fingers, familiar yet different now-like everything between us. There's an intimacy to the gesture that makes my heart ache. "Arson's ordering pizza," I tell her, focusing on the tangible, the immediate. "Margherita with extra basil." A ghost of a smile touches her lips, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. "You remembered." "Of course I did." I continue the gentle stroking, feeling some of the tension ease from her body with each pass of my fingers. "It's impossible to forget anything about you, Lilian." She rolls onto her back then, looking up at me with eyes so full of pain, so heavy with confusion, that it physically hurts to meet her gaze. "I don't know who I am anymore, Aries. Everything I thought I knew about myself, about my life... It's all built on lies." "Not everything," I counter, shifting to lie beside her on the bed, propped up on one elbow. The mattress dips under our combined weight, bringing her closer. "The person you are-your kindness, your intelligence, your strength-that's all real. That's all you." "Is it? Or is it just what they designed me to be?" Her voice cracks on the question, raw emotion bleeding through. It takes everything in me not to gather her into my arms right then, to shield her from the cruelty of the world. "What if even my personality is just...medication and conditioning? What if everything I've been told about my father's death is a lie, too?" "It's not," I say with absolute certainty, needing her to believe it as much as I need to breathe. "I've known you since we were children, Lilian. I've seen you fight against their expectations, push back against their restrictions. That defiance, that spirit-that's all yours. No one gave you that. No one could take it away." She studies my face, searching for something-reassurance, perhaps, or confirmation. Whatever she sees must satisfy her because she shifts closer, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder as naturally as if we've lain like this a thousand times. We haven't, of course. There have been moments-comforting hugs, casual touches, a handful of near misses when mutual desire overcame familial boundaries-but nothing like this deliberate intimacy. Nothing like the weight of her head on my chest, the scent of her hair filling my lungs, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. It feels dangerous and right all at once. "Thank you," she murmurs against my chest, the words vibrating through me. "For being here. For believing in me." I allow my arm to settle around her, pulling her closer, protective and possessive all at once. "Always." The door opens wider, Arson appearing in the frame with a flat pizza box balanced on one hand. He pauses at the sight of us together on the bed, something complicated flickering across his features-jealousy, longing, resignation, all warring for dominance. For a moment, I tense, expecting the worst-violence, accusations, another battle in our endless war. Instead, he simply raises an eyebrow, his voice carefully neutral. "Room for one more? I brought provisions." Lilian lifts her head, extending a hand toward him in silent invitation. After a brief hesitation-a moment where I can almost see him weighing pride against need-he crosses to the bed, setting the pizza box on the nightstand before settling on Lilian's other side. It should be awkward, the three of us together like this, given our history, our competing claims, our complicated feelings. And it is, a little. But there's also something unexpectedly right about it, like puzzle pieces finally finding their proper configuration after years of being forced into the wrong places. "Peace offering," Arson says, flipping open the box to reveal the still-steaming pizza. The scent of basil and cheese fills the room, momentarily overwhelming the tension. "Eat before it gets cold." Lilian sits up between us, reaching for a slice. "Thank you." We eat in surprisingly comfortable silence, passing napkins and trading slices without the usual tension of our interactions. It's strange to see my brother like this-guard down, defenses temporarily lowered, human rather than the vengeful force that has dominated my existence these past months. In the dim light of the bedroom, with Lilian between us, I can almost remember the boy he was before everything went to hell. Before the boathouse. Before the lies. "So," Lilian says finally, breaking the silence. "Seven days to dig into my father's death, figure out what they're planning, and stop them from doing...whatever it is they want to do to me." "And to destroy the power of attorney," I add, the lawyer in me already mapping out strategies. "There has to be a legal way to challenge it." "We'll need help," Arson admits grudgingly, the words sounding like they're being dragged from him against his will. "Resources. Contacts." "Drew might know someone," I suggest, ignoring the flash of irritation that crosses his face at the mention of my friend. "He has connections in legal circles." "I don't trust him," Arson says flatly, lip curling in distaste. "Neither do I, at least not anymore," I concede, thinking of how quickly Drew had accepted my "twin" in my place. Some friend. "But we're short on allies at the moment." "We also need to find out more about my father's trust," Lilian says thoughtfully, picking at a piece of crust. "Mother's had complete control of it since his death. I never questioned it before, but now..." "Now you're questioning everything," I finish for her, understanding the feeling all too well. When your foundation crumbles, nothing feels solid anymore. Lilian looks between us, a small smile playing at her lips despite everything. "Are you two actually agreeing on something? Should I check outside for flying pigs?" "Don't get used to it," Arson mutters, but there's no real heat in his tone. Just exhaustion and a reluctant acknowledgment of necessity. I find myself smiling too, the expression feeling foreign after months of captivity and rage. "Consider it a temporary alliance. For the greater good." "The greater good being me, I presume?" Lilian asks, her teasing tone a welcome respite from the day's trauma. "Obviously," Arson and I reply in perfect unison, then share a look of mutual surprise and discomfort at our synchronicity. Lilian laughs then, the sound bright and unexpected in the dimly lit bedroom. It's been so long since I've heard her laugh like that-genuine and without restraint-that for a moment I can only stare, captivated by the transformation it brings to her face. The weight lifts, the shadows recede, and for a second, I can see the girl she was before all this-before the drugs, before the lies, and before she got caught between my brother and me. Arson seems equally affected, his expression softening in a way I wouldn't have believed possible a week ago. For this moment, the hatred between us recedes, overshadowed by our shared appreciation of her joy, however fleeting it is. "We'll figure this out," I promise her, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "Together." "Together," she echoes, looking from me to Arson with something like hope in her eyes, fragile but real. "All of us." Arson meets my gaze over her head, a silent communication passing between us-not friendship, not forgiveness, but something approaching understanding. For now, for her, we'll set aside our grievances. We'll work as one. The night settles around us, the warehouse quiet save for our breathing and the occasional rustle as we reach for another slice of pizza. Outside, the world continues its chaotic spin-Patricia plotting, Richard scheming, unknown "donors" waiting. In this room, on this bed, with Lilian safe between us, there's a momentary peace I didn't know I'd been craving. Tomorrow will bring new dangers, new battles, and the resumption of old hatreds. But tonight, this strange triangular truce holds, fragile but real. And for now, that's enough.