He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Ileana, is there <b>something </b>you’re not telling us? If there’s anything troubling you, you can talk to <b>us</b>. Mom<b>, </b>Dad, your brothers–we’ll do everything we can to help.”
“And what exactly can you help me with?” Ileana’s face was openly mocking<b>, </b><b>not </b>even trying to hide her scorn.
“Can you get me into the academy? Buy me a thirty–thousand–dor dress? Or maybe move me out of this tiny, filthy apartment building? What is it, exactly, that you all can do for me? What can you possibly give me that I actually want?<b>” </b>
Her words hit like a p, leaving everyone in the room visibly shaken and pale.
“Are you serious about all this?” Ethan, the eldest, was usually the mostposed. His gaze was dark and deep as a midnight well, fixed on Ileana, but she didn’t even flinch.
And at that moment, he finally understood.
“So, when exactly did you find out you were the Tate family’s missing daughter?” Liam finally voiced the question none of them dared to ask, and Ileana’s eyes flickered with a hint of guilt.
“That’s not something you need to know.” Ileana stood up, impatience creeping into
her voice.
“I only came to let you know: from today on, we’ll go our separate ways. If we cross paths, let’s just pretend we’re strangers. Don’t bother me, and I won’t bother you. As for the million dors I promised, you turned it down yourselves–so don’t you daree crawling back to ask for itter!”
She stood there, chin lifted high in defiance.
“Fine. We’ll leave each other alone. As far as I’m concerned, the Morton family never had a daughter named Ileana!” Brendan’s voice was eerily calm. “And about that million–you can rest easy. Even if the Mortons are so broke we’re sleeping on the street, we’d never lower ourselves to ask you for money.”
He closed his eyes, shutting down every trace of emotion. “Go. If we ever meet again, we’ll just act like strangers.”
From that day forward, Ileana never came back.
The bus announced the next stop, and Zachary stepped off almost on autopilot,
<b>16:44 </b>
<b>Chapter </b><b>88 </b>
still dazed by everything that had happened. He looked <b>up </b><b>at </b><b>the </b>sky<b>; </b><b>the </b><b>evening </b>sun was sinking slowly, streaks of crimson and gold painting the <b>clouds</b><b>–</b><b>beautiful </b>yet somehow leaving a hollow ache inside him.
Elsewhere, though not entirely by choice, Alessia found herself being ushered <b>into </b><b>a </b>restaurant by Max.
The ma?tre d‘ led them to their table. The whole ce was empty except for staff and the two of them–Max had reserved the entire restaurant in advance.
“Take a look and order whatever you want. After all, <i>you </i>wouldn’t have a chance to dine here if you were still with the Mortons,” Max said, handing her the menu.
Alessia wasn’t bothered in the slightest. She gave a faint, amused smile <i>and </i>pushed the menu back to him.
“With you around, I doubt I could stomach even the finest feast.”
Max gave a soft chuckle, not the least bit offended. The waiter stood by, pretending not to hear. Thankfully, neither of them made things difficult for the staff, and the order was ced without incident.
“Sir, your bill qualifies you for aplimentary eggnog. Would <i>you </i>like to try our newest recipe?”
“No, this will be enough,” Max replied, closing the menu.
“Certainly. Please wait just a moment.” The waiter collected the menus and left.
“So, out with it. What are <i>you </i>really after? You caused all this drama–I refuse to believe it’s just for dinner.”
“My dear sister, after living under the same roof for seventeen years, can’t I take <i>you </i>out for a meal?”
Alessia snorted. “Seventeen years, and you suddenly remember to treat your sister to dinner? That’s pretty impressive, even for you. By the way, you must be mixing things up–your real sister is the one you dumped at the school gate earlier. Thanks to you, my life just gained another enemy who wants to tear me to <i>pieces</i>.”
“You’re wee.”
Max raised his ss of in water, arching an eyebrow as he clinked it in the <i>air</i>, a mock toast hanging between them.