Too Late To Chase The One He Betrayed

Brittany knew that no matter what she said, it would be useless.

A beauty shedding tears, Weston would never spare her a glance, let alone a shred of mercy.

"Sorry, sister-in-law."

The words scraped her throat, dry and hollow. Behind her back, her fingers clenched, pressing against the ribbon-cut wound on her palm, where blood had already begun to bead.

She returned to the attic alone.

The layout was identical to her original room, down to the neatly arranged photos lining the walls, snapshots of a past she had once cherished. Pictures of her and Weston, spanning childhood to now, each one painstakingly restored by his own hands.

Her lashes fluttered closed for a brief moment. Then, one by one, she tore them down.

Weston had already found his true family. Even if she vanished from his world without a trace, it wouldn’t cause the slightest ripple.

Would he feel sad? Would he ever think of the disgusting little sister he had cast aside in the midst of his blissful life with Theresa?

Probably not.

Since he had never belonged to her, neither the song nor the wedding dress nor this room held any meaning anymore.

With a single sweep of her hand, the photos tumbled into the trash.

Just then, her phone rang.

"Brittany! Mom and Dad already booked our tickets. We’ll be there to pick you up in five days! How’s your stay at the Beverleighs? Are they treating you well? They keep insisting Weston takes great care of you, but if he did, would he have thrown you into a psychiatric hospital…?"

"Brother, it’s fine. It was my problem. Back then, I was sick."

Dominic fell silent.

"Anyway," she added lightly, "once you’re back, I’ll be moving out."

"Yes! Yes! The moment we return, we’re bringing you home!"

A faint smile tugged at her lips. His anxious yet excited voice stirred something in her chest, a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long time.

These past few days, her real parents had also called her frequently. Even before their reunion, they had already transferred several properties under her name.

"Who are you talking to?"

A deep, sullen voice cut through the air.

Brittany turned, startled. At some point, the door had been pushed open. Weston stood against the wall, his expression dark, his gaze locked onto her like a predator catching its prey.

Brittany pressed her lips together, offering no response.

But Weston didn’t seem to care.

In just a few strides, he was in front of her, his grip firm as he caught her chin and forced her gaze to his. His eyes were cold, sharp.

"Brittany, didn’t I tell you not to hurt her? She’s not like you."

Yet the moment he saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, his tone softened.

"As long as you admit your mistake and change, I can pretend none of this ever happened. You will always be my sister."

He had once indulged her, shielded her from everything. No matter what she did, he was always on her side.

But Brittany understood now she was no longer the one he cherished.

He wasn’t defending her. He wasn’t even listening. He was only protecting the woman he loved.

So she simply nodded.

Weston, ever meticulous, never once noticed the wound on her palm as he walked away.

A message notification chimed.

Brittany struggled to pick up her phone. Another message from her brother.

[Brittany, the housekeeper’s daughter, is also in Evermist. Dad and Mom have always treated her well since she was little. If you’re not comfortable staying there, I can have her come take care of you.]

A helpless smile tugged at her lips.

[No need, Brother.]

Two hours later, she stepped out of her room.

The house was steeped in darkness, the lights long extinguished. Relying on memory, she navigated her way toward the living room, careful with every step.

As she passed by Weston and Theresa’s room, she instinctively slowed, barely daring to breathe.

If he saw her, he would only assume the worst, that she was putting on an act, using self-inflicted wounds to gain sympathy.

She knew him too well.

The shelves in the living room were still lined with bottles of medicine, silent relics of the past, when she had been weak, frail. When Weston had once bought them for her with his own hands.