The Foster Brother

Caleb.

The name feels like a jagged piece of glass in my throat. I stand in the center of our hyper-modern kitchen, the silent hum of the smart-fridge the only sound in the house. Sunlight hits the marble island, making it look as sterile as an operating table.

David—no, the man performing the role of David—is coming down the stairs. I can hear the steady, rhythmic thud of his footsteps. The man the Lexington Gazette called "troubled." The foster brother who lived while the real heir burned.

I turn to the stove, my hands moving on autopilot. I reach for a carton of eggs, but my fingers are trembling so violently the cardboard slips. It hits the counter with a wet, sickening crunch.

"Whoa, easy there," a voice says behind me.

I jump, a small cry escaping my lips. David is right there, dressed for a board meeting in a charcoal suit that costs more than my first car. He reaches out to steady me, his hand hovering near my shoulder.

"You're jumpy this morning, Clara," he says. His eyes are searching mine, that intense, analytical gaze that used to make me feel seen, but now makes me feel hunted. "Did you sleep at all after that migraine?"

"I'm fine," I manage to say. I grab a paper towel and begin frantically dabbing at the yellow yolk pooling on the counter. "Just... a lot on my mind with the kids' school schedule."

"Leave it," he says, his voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative Vance register. "The housekeeper will be here in an hour. Come sit down."

He pulls out a stool for me. I sit, my back rigid. I look at him—the sharp jawline, the perfectly styled hair, the expensive watch. Every inch of him is a masterpiece of Eleanor’s curation. I try to find the "troubled Caleb" underneath the polish. Did he set the fire? Did he kill the real David to steal his throne, or was he just a tool in Eleanor’s desperate hands?

"Caleb?" I whisper.

The name is out before I can stop it. A slip of the tongue. A death sentence.

David freezes. He is mid-pour, the orange juice stream splashing against the side of his glass. The kitchen goes deathly quiet. The air feels like it’s being sucked out of the room.

"What did you say?" he asks. His voice is a low, dangerous vibration.

"I said... Sam," I stammer, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it hurts. "Sam needs new cleats. For soccer. I was just... thinking about the cost."

David slowly sets the pitcher down. He doesn't look convinced. He moves around the island, his presence suddenly massive, suffocating. He reaches out and grabs my forearm. Not a caress. A lock.

I look down at his hand, then up at his face. My breath is coming in shallow hitches. I can see the pulse in his neck racing.

"Sam doesn't play soccer, Clara," he says. He leans in closer, his face inches from mine. "Sam plays violin. You know that."

His grip was too tight. 'You're looking at me like I'm a stranger, Clara.'