Adrian Costa

I grew up loving him. He grew up knowing he could never be mine. It wasn’t about love—it was about business. My father made that clear when he arranged his marriage to my half-sister instead. She was his favorite, after all. And what she wanted, she got. So we did the only thing we could. The opening scene. I caught him staring again. Then he looked away. Just like he always did. “You’re quiet tonight,” my half-sister cooed, tracing a manicured finger over the back of his hand. His hand. The one I used to hold. The one I still felt on my skin. “I’m just tired,” he murmured, his voice even, distant. The night before his wedding, he made sure I’d never forget him. That no matter what happened, I’d always have a part of him. Now, a year later, we all live under the same roof. My father. My stepmother. My sister. Him. And our child. He keeps his distance. Plays the role he was forced into. Acts like nothing happened. But when his eyes meet mine, I know the truth. We were never meant to be. But we can never truly let go.