Chapter 6
Graham’s POV
The hallway lights cast a dim yellow glow, stretching my shadow across the floor.
I stood outside the half-open door, my fingers wrapped around the metal lighter in my pocket.
Through the gap, Louis was holding Isolde’s hand against his face, mumbling the same promise over and over—that it would never happen again.
I was already sick of hearing it.
I didn’t know whether Isolde still believed him.
That was my brother.
And he was the reason she was lying there like this.
For one sharp moment, I wanted to push the door open and drag him away from her. Even just standing beside her would have been easier than staying here and doing nothing.
But I didn’t move.
I had spent too many years teaching myself control. I couldn’t let jealousy ruin both families in a moment like this.
I closed my eyes briefly, lifted a hand, and knocked twice against the doorframe.
Both of them turned to look at me.
“When her fever breaks, send me a message.”
My voice was flat, unreadable.
Without waiting for an answer, I turned and walked away.
When I reached the first floor, Andrew Porter and Mrs. Porter were still waiting in the living room. They stood at once when they saw me and thanked me again.
I answered with a few polite words, declined their offer to stay, and stepped out through the villa doors.
Snow and wind rushed straight into my collar.
It was cold.
Cold enough to clear my head.
I walked to the SUV but didn’t get in right away. Leaning against the freezing metal, I pulled out the lighter and a cigarette.
The flame flared up, briefly illuminating the snow between me and the house.
I lowered my head, lit it, and took a hard drag. The smoke burned all the way down, but it did nothing to ease the pressure in my chest.
I looked up through the snow toward the lit second-floor window.
Isolde was in there.
Sick. Weak. And with Louis beside her.
For no reason I could stop, I found myself remembering years ago.
Back then, when Isolde was sick, she never let Louis come near her.
Her health had been even worse as a child. Every change of season brought fever.
At that time, our families still lived in the same compound. Whenever she got sick, no one could coax her into taking medicine.
She would clutch that rabbit doll and come to my door instead.
“Graham, it’s bitter...”
She would tug at my sleeve and look up at me with that fever-flushed face, her eyes full of trust.
If I crushed the pills, mixed them with sweet water, and fed them to her slowly, she would swallow every spoonful without complaint.
Back then, she relied on me.
When she was sick, I was the one she looked for first.
When had that changed?
Was it after Louis kissed her at the Andersons’ birthday party?
Or after he learned to ride a motorcycle and started taking her out to see stars and fireworks?
By the time I realized she was drifting away from me, all that remained in her eyes was distance and courtesy.
I couldn’t stand that change. I couldn’t stand what my own feelings were turning into.
So I left.
I joined the military and put distance between us, hoping discipline and danger would crush everything I wasn’t supposed to feel.
And yet tonight, after I drove through a snowstorm to get her, all she gave me was a quiet, polite—
Thank you, Graham.
No wound. No blood.
But it hurt anyway.
In her heart, I was Louis’s brother. The man who cleaned up after him.
Never a man she could love.
The cigarette burned down to the filter, heat biting into my fingers.
I came back to myself, crushed it out, and got into the SUV.
The inside still held some fading warmth.
And on the back seat, there seemed to be the faintest trace of her scent.
I closed my eyes, and my chest tightened sharply.
Her fever-flushed face wouldn’t leave me. Neither would the sight of her leaning weakly against the seat, lashes damp, lips parted from the effort of breathing.
For one dangerous moment, that helpless image struck too deep—tangling with everything I had spent years suppressing.
My breathing turned uneven.
I gripped the steering wheel so hard the tendons stood out in my hand.
“Graham, get a hold of yourself.”
The words came out through clenched teeth.
I slammed my fist into the center console.
Pain shot across my knuckles. Skin split. Warm blood welled up.
The pain gave me just enough control to drag myself back.
Cold sweat clung to my back beneath my shirt.
I looked up at the rearview mirror.
The man staring back at me had bloodshot eyes and hair fallen loose across his brow—nothing like the composed version of myself I kept for everyone else.
The upstairs window was still lit.
Had her fever come down? Did Louis know what he was doing?
And I was sitting here, trapped by thoughts that had no right to touch her.
Disgust rose in me instantly.
These feelings—this jealousy, this possessiveness, this loss of control—were shameful enough on their own.
They should never have anything to do with her.
Isolde had always been fragile in body, but never in spirit.
Those hands that made art, that gentle and perceptive heart—none of it deserved to be touched by anything dark in me.
Whenever she looked at me, there was trust in her eyes. Nothing guarded. Nothing afraid.
She probably thought of me as a friend.
If she ever knew what I really felt—
I cut the thought off.
I unlocked the doors and rolled the windows down.
Snow and freezing wind flooded the cabin at once.
At last, the cold was enough to smother the heat still coursing through me.
I started the engine and drove out through the Porter Manor gates.
But less than a block later, at a dark bend in the road, I hit the brakes.
From there, the manor gates were out of sight, but I could still just make out the shape of that second-floor window.
I killed the engine and turned off the lights.
The SUV disappeared into the dark, snow-filled night.
One hour. Two.
The ashtray filled with cigarette butts. The cabin smelled thickly of smoke.
Had her fever broken? Was Louis taking care of her properly?
The same questions circled over and over until my temples throbbed.
Several times, my hand hovered over my phone.
Several times, I stopped myself.
I couldn’t call.
What right did I have?
I leaned back and shut my burning eyes.
If I had been the one to bring her to North Ridge tonight—
No. I never would have let her freeze in a place like that.
If she wanted to see snow, I would have let her watch it from warmth and safety, with something hot in her hands and glass between her and the cold.
She would never have suffered for it.
But the person she wanted was Louis.
The one who pulled her straight into the storm.
The night grew deeper. The snow fell harder.
Cold seeped into my bones until my fingers were too stiff to hold a cigarette properly.
Then the phone on the dashboard vibrated.
A message from Louis.
[Graham, Isolde’s fever broke. She’s asleep now. Dr. Smith says she’s okay.]
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Good.
That was enough.
The rearview mirror showed me a face worn rough by the night—eyes bloodshot, stubble darkening my jaw.
If the men in my unit saw me like this, I’d never hear the end of it.
I unlocked my phone with one hand and typed a single word.
[Good.]
Then I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
When I looked up again, I gathered every stray emotion back under lock and key.
By the time I turned the ignition, I was once again the man no one could read.
The engine rumbled low.
Gear. Brake. Gas.
The SUV rolled forward, crushing thin ice beneath its tires, and drove toward the first gray light of dawn without looking back.
