Chapter 4: A Candle in the Dark

Madeline’s face was calm, almost smug, as if she thought I was just throwing a tantrum.

She crossed her arms, lips twitching in a half-smile. It was the same look she gave me after every fight—a silent bet that I’d come crawling back. But this time, I was done.

"Evan. I hope you won’t regret what you said today. If you want to see me again, kneel and apologize."

Her voice was lazy, edged with ice. She turned, flagged down a cab, and slid inside without looking back.

She didn’t wait for me to respond. The cab pulled up, she got in, and never glanced back. I watched the taillights disappear, feeling lighter than I had in years.

I knew Madeline loved being adored, loved the spotlight. Before my brother showed up, she’d gotten close to male celebrities and models more than once. I’d lost my mind over it, fought with her, threatened her. But every time, she had me wrapped around her finger. I always ended up spending a fortune to buy out photos, bury scandals, chase down tabloid editors. She always shrugged it off—just boredom, she’d say. But seeing her with Noah, I suddenly wondered: did I really have to marry Madeline? I had everything, yet in love, I was a beggar, letting her hurt me again and again. Was it worth it?

The question rang in my head, louder than ever. I thought of every time I’d forgiven her, every mess I’d cleaned up. I realized I’d been chasing something that wasn’t real anymore. Maybe it never was.

I shook my head. Coffee tastes best when you let it steep; sometimes, you’re happier when you learn to let go.

I poured myself a cup, letting the rich aroma fill the kitchen. The bitterness was grounding. I stood by the window, watching the sunrise, and felt the weight of the past finally start to lift from my shoulders.

Back at the house, Noah was kneeling by my father’s chair, massaging his legs. He glanced up, flashing a smile that looked sweet for Dad but carried a sharp edge for me.

The living room buzzed with the TV—Dad’s favorite baseball game on mute. Noah looked up, his face all innocence for Dad, but his eyes sparkled with something sly when they met mine. He pressed his thumbs into Dad’s calves, playing the perfect son.

"Dad, Evan’s back. Don’t scold him. He didn’t hit me—the bruise on my face is from falling. Evan, I’m sorry. Because of me, you argued with Madeline. But how could you leave her alone on the side of the road?"

He sounded wounded, his voice quivering just enough to tug at Dad’s heart. He dabbed at his eye, making sure Dad noticed the mark. I almost laughed at how far he’d go for sympathy.

A red, swollen handprint stood out on his cheek. I couldn’t help but shake my head—he really committed to the bit.

The mark was fresh, the kind that would look dramatic in a photo. I almost admired his dedication. Dad, of course, ate it up.

My father was furious, shoving his chair aside and storming toward me.

He pushed up from his recliner, face flushed with anger, neck veins bulging. He barked my name, disappointment etched deep in every line. I braced for the usual lecture.

"Evan, how much do you hate your brother to hit him like that? You’re selfish and unreasonable. He’s suffered so much, and still has to deal with a brother like you. Apologize to him now, or you’re out of this family."

Dad’s voice thundered through the house, loud enough to rattle the windows. I could see Noah’s smirk just behind his tears, soaking up every second.

Noah stood behind him, raising his eyebrows, mouthing the word "Trash."

He mouthed it slow, making sure I saw. My hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to knock that look off his face.

I took a step forward and punched Noah in the face. He staggered, crashing to the floor.

The hit landed with a crack. Noah fell, clutching his jaw, eyes wide with fake shock. The room went dead silent—then Dad erupted.

"You want an apology? Stick your face out here and let me hit you until I’m satisfied. Then maybe I’ll consider it."

My voice was cold, every word loaded with years of anger. I stared Noah down, daring him to keep playing the victim.

Noah’s eyes filled with tears, his whole body trembling as he put on his best terrified act.

He whimpered, crawling backward, hands shaking. His performance was worthy of an award—he even managed a hiccup for effect. I almost applauded.

"Bro, please, don’t hit me anymore. I don’t know what I did wrong. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry."

He sniffled, voice cracking. Dad rushed over, face twisted with rage, and shot me a look that could kill. The whole thing felt like a bad TV drama.

My dad lost it, pulling Noah into his arms and swinging at me.

He punched me hard in the shoulder. I staggered, more surprised than hurt. He pulled Noah close, glaring at me like I was some villain on reality TV.