Chapter 4 The differences

The Wilson house existed in a state of perpetual tension, like a violin string stretched to the breaking point.

Heaven stood in the kitchen at 11:20 PM, washing dishes that had been clean for the past twenty minutes. The repetitive motion of sponge against porcelain was meditation disguised as productivity-a way to avoid the conversation waiting for her in the living room like a loaded gun.

Her father's voice carried through the thin walls, low and measured in that particular way that made her stomach clench. He wasn't yelling yet. That would come later, around 11:23 PM, just as she'd predicted. For now, he was in the dangerous quiet phase, the eye of the storm where his disappointment gathered momentum.

"Marcus," she heard him say, "your sister thinks she's too good for this family."

Heaven's grip tightened on the dish towel. Through the kitchen window, she could see her reflection-angular face pale in the harsh fluorescent light, dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn't quite conceal anymore. She looked like her mother had at the same age, before marriage and children had worn the sharp edges smooth.

"She's at the hospital, Dad," Marcus replied, his voice careful. At seventeen, her younger brother had already learned to navigate their father's moods like a sailor reading storm clouds. "She's studying to be a doctor. That's good, right?"

"Studying." Their father's laugh was bitter as burnt coffee. "While her family falls apart. While her mother cries herself to sleep every night wondering what she did wrong to raise such a selfish daughter."

Heaven set the dish down with surgical precision, each movement controlled to prevent the tremor in her hands from showing. She'd heard variations of this speech since she'd started medical school. Each word was a scalpel, designed to cut precisely where it would hurt most.

The front door opened with a creak that announced her mother's return from her night shift at the diner. Margaret Wilson moved through the house like a ghost, her footsteps barely audible on the worn linoleum. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, still wearing her waitress uniform, her graying hair pulled back in a bun that had wilted over the course of her shift.

"Heaven, sweetheart," her mother said softly, "you're home."

It wasn't quite a question, but it carried the weight of hope. As if Heaven's presence could somehow balance the equation of their family's dysfunction.

"I'm home," Heaven confirmed, drying her hands on the towel. She studied her mother's face-the deep lines around her eyes, the way she held her shoulders like she was carrying invisible weight. Margaret Wilson had been beautiful once. Heaven had seen the pictures, back when her parents were young and still believed in happy endings.

"Your father's upset," her mother said, unnecessarily.

"I know."

"He just... he worries about you. We both do. You work so hard, and you're never-"

"I'm here now," Heaven interrupted gently. She couldn't bear to hear the rest of the sentence, couldn't face another conversation about how her ambitions were slowly killing her family's cohesion.

Her mother's smile was fragile as tissue paper. "How was your day? At the hospital?"

Heaven considered telling her about the study session, about Draven Callahan and his charming disasters, about the way he'd looked at her like she might be the answer to questions he hadn't known how to ask. Instead, she said, "Productive. I helped some students with pharmacology."

"That's nice, dear. You're so smart. Always have been." Margaret's voice carried the wistful quality of someone remembering a different version of their life. "Sometimes I think you got all the brains in this family."

From the living room came the sound of her father's voice rising, and Marcus's quieter responses. The familiar rhythm of a family argument beginning its nightly performance.

"I should go to bed," Heaven said. "Early rounds tomorrow."

Her mother nodded, but as Heaven moved toward the hallway, Margaret caught her arm. "Heaven? Your father... he loves you. We both do. Sometimes love just... gets complicated."

Heaven looked down at her mother's weathered hand on her sleeve, seeing the calluses from years of carrying heavy trays, the wedding ring that had worn thin from constant twisting during worry. "I know, Mom."

But as she climbed the stairs to her childhood bedroom, Heaven wondered if love was supposed to feel so much like drowning.

Her room was exactly as she'd left it at eighteen-a time capsule of academic achievement and careful control. Awards lined the walls, honor society certificates and perfect attendance records creating a shrine to someone who had never learned how to fail gracefully. Her desk held medical textbooks stacked with military precision, each one a stepping stone toward a future that felt simultaneously inevitable and impossibly distant.

Heaven sat on the edge of her narrow bed and allowed herself sixty seconds of vulnerability. Just sixty seconds to feel the weight of carrying everyone's expectations, of being the bright star in a family constellation that seemed determined to collapse in on itself.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: Dad's getting loud. Might want to put in headphones.

Heaven typed back: I'll handle it in the morning.

Another message: When? You're always at the hospital.

She stared at the screen, her brother's words echoing what Draven Callahan had implied earlier-that perhaps she was running from something instead of running toward something. The thought sat in her chest like a stone.

Instead of responding, Heaven changed into her pajamas, set her alarm for 5:30 AM, and lay down in the bed she'd outgrown years ago. Through the thin walls, she could hear her father's voice reaching its crescendo, her mother's soft attempts at pacification, and Marcus's bedroom door closing with the finality of someone who had learned that some storms could only be weathered, not stopped.

Tomorrow, she would return to the hospital. Tomorrow, she would be Heaven Wilson, the brilliant fourth-year student whose precision and control made everyone else feel slightly inadequate. But tonight, in this house where love felt like obligation and success felt like abandonment, she was just a daughter who couldn't figure out how to save anyone-including herself.

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The Callahan estate sprawled across twelve acres of perfectly manicured landscape like a testament to the kind of wealth that had forgotten its own origins.

Draven stood in his childhood bedroom at 11:52 PM, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at grounds that looked more like a museum exhibit than a home. The room itself was larger than most people's apartments-all dark wood and leather furniture, with framed photographs of three generations of Callahan men who had all learned to smile the same calculated smile.

He'd been summoned home for dinner, which in the Callahan household was less about nutrition and more about performance evaluation. The evening had gone about as well as expected, which was to say it had been a masterclass in passive-aggressive disappointment wrapped in polite conversation.

His phone sat on the mahogany desk, displaying seventeen missed calls from his mother and four voicemails he hadn't listened to. He already knew what they'd say-variations on the theme of "appropriate behavior" and "family reputation" and how his actions reflected on the Callahan legacy.

A soft knock on his door interrupted his brooding. "Come in," he called, not bothering to turn around.

His mother entered with the graceful precision of someone who had spent forty years perfecting the art of looking effortlessly elegant. Victoria Callahan was still beautiful at fifty-five, in the way that expensive maintenance and genetic lottery could achieve. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a chignon that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, and her navy dress was tailored to perfection.

"Darling," she said, settling into one of the wingback chairs near the window. "We need to talk."

Draven finally turned from the window, taking in his mother's expression. She looked tired beneath the perfectly applied makeup, and something in her posture suggested this wasn't going to be the usual lecture about public behavior.

"If this is about the lobby incident," he said, "I've already apologized to half the hospital staff and promised Dr. Richardson I'll maintain appropriate decorum for the rest of my natural life."

"It's not about the lobby." Victoria's voice was quieter than usual, lacking its typical commanding authority. "Well, not entirely about the lobby."

Draven moved to the chair across from her, suddenly alert. His mother rarely showed uncertainty, and when she did, it usually meant something significant was about to shift in the Callahan universe.

"Your father had lunch with Dr. William Hayes today," she continued. "He's the chief of staff at the hospital."

"I know who Dr. Hayes is, Mom."

"They discussed your progress. Your grades, your... integration with your classmates." Victoria's fingers twisted her wedding ring, a nervous habit she'd developed over the years. "Dr. Hayes expressed some concerns."

Draven felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What kind of concerns?"

"The kind that make him question whether you're taking your medical education seriously. Whether you understand the gravity of what you're training to do." Victoria leaned forward slightly. "Draven, your father and I have invested a great deal in your future. The donations we've made to that hospital, the strings we've pulled to ensure you had every advantage-"

"I never asked for any of that," Draven said quietly.

"You didn't have to ask. It's what families like ours do. We ensure our children succeed." Victoria's voice took on the steel edge he remembered from childhood. "But success requires more than just showing up, darling. It requires dedication, focus, and above all, the understanding that your actions have consequences beyond yourself."

Draven stared at his mother, seeing her clearly for perhaps the first time in years. She wasn't just delivering a lecture about appropriate behavior-she was afraid. Afraid that he would fail, that he would embarrass the family, that all their careful investments in his future would crumble because he couldn't learn to play by their rules.

"What exactly did Dr. Hayes say?" he asked.

Victoria's composure cracked slightly. "He said you have potential but that you seem... unfocused. That you treat medical school like it's some kind of social experiment rather than professional training." She paused, gathering herself. "He also mentioned that you've been seen with some of the more serious students. That girl-Heaven Wilson?"

The way she said Heaven's name made it sound like a diagnosis. Draven felt his defensive instincts kick in, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was defending.

"She's tutoring me in pharmacology," he said carefully.

"Good. That's... that's exactly what you need. Someone who understands the gravity of medical training, who can help you focus on what matters." Victoria's relief was palpable. "She has an excellent reputation. Brilliant, dedicated, no-nonsense approach to her studies."

Draven thought about Heaven as he'd seen her that morning-precise and controlled, but with something flickering beneath the surface. Something that suggested her perfection might be as carefully constructed as his charm.

"Dr. Hayes suggested," Victoria continued, "that if you could demonstrate more... academic commitment... align yourself with the serious students rather than the social ones... it might help your standing considerably."

The implication hung in the air like smoke. Shape up or face consequences that would extend far beyond medical school.

"What happens if I don't meet Dr. Hayes's expectations?" Draven asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

Victoria's smile was sharp as surgical steel. "Then your father and I will need to reconsider whether medical school is the right path for you. There are other careers that might be better suited to your... temperament."

The threat was delivered with perfect maternal sweetness, but Draven heard it clearly. Fall in line or lose everything. Become the son they wanted or stop being their son altogether.

After his mother left, Draven sat alone in his oversized bedroom, surrounded by the artifacts of a childhood spent learning to perform rather than live. The framed photographs stared down at him-generations of Callahan men who had all mastered the art of being exactly what was expected of them.

His phone buzzed with a text from Jake Morrison: Study group tomorrow? Wilson said she might do another session if there's interest.

Draven stared at the message for a long time. Tomorrow, he could see Heaven Wilson again. Tomorrow, he could sit across from someone whose brilliance felt earned rather than purchased, whose control seemed to come from strength rather than fear.

He typed back: Count me in. And this time, I'll be on time.

It was a small promise, but as he set his phone aside and prepared for bed, it felt like the first honest thing he'd said all day.

Outside his window, the Callahan estate slept in its perfectly maintained splendor, every hedge trimmed to precision, every light positioned to create maximum dramatic effect. It was beautiful in the way that museums were beautiful-impressive, expensive, and completely devoid of anything resembling real life.

Draven closed his eyes and tried not to think about the weight of expectations pressing down on him like atmosphere on a deep-sea diver. Instead, he thought about the way Heaven Wilson had caught his falling textbook without thinking, the precision of her movements, and the brief moment when her carefully constructed composure had slipped just enough to reveal something human underneath.

Tomorrow, he would try to be worthy of thirty minutes of her time.

Tonight, that felt like the most ambitious goal he'd ever set for himself.