Chapter 132: This Isn’t a Dream
It was barely dawn, and the house still slept. But he couldn’t not after what he read in Mara’s diary, and certainly not with the weight of her pain clawing at his chest. Her confusion, her loneliness, the way she still craved Ethan even when her logic screamed otherwise—it haunted him.
He stood in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, staring into nothing.
Soon, he wasn’t alone.
Stanley walked in next, hair slightly disheveled, but his composure still intact. He gave a silent nod and poured himself a drink. Then came Stanford, his usual calm tinged with something darker, that morning quiet fury he hadn’t yet voiced.
Finally, Stefan wandered in, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn’t sleep either," he muttered.
No one responded. They didn’t need to. They were all thinking the same thing. Then came the knock at the back door, soft but firm. The maid appeared moments later, hesitant. "Sirs... um, Ethan is at the gate." The room went still.
Rage sharp and immediate flared in the air like a match struck too close to open flame. All four brothers stilled, shoulders tight, eyes hard.
Steve was the first to speak. "Let him in." The others turned to him, surprised, and he said simply. "Support, not control." They exchanged looks loaded, reluctance. Then they nodded.
—
Ethan stepped into the house with steady eyes but a clenched jaw. He looked ready to be punched—or maybe just bracing for it. None of the brothers moved to shake his hand.
Steve led. Stanley stood beside him like a silent blade. Stanford folded his arms, saying nothing, but his presence screamed judgment. Stefan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable.