Chapter 7

Andrew's face was an ugly mask of disbelief.

"Give it back, Brooklyn," he repeated, his voice low and threatening. He was convinced I had taken it.

I was too tired to argue, too tired to defend myself against their endless, baseless accusations.

"I didn't take it," I said again, turning my back on him to look out the window.

That was a mistake.

He grabbed me, his hand like a claw on my arm, and shoved me against the wall.

"You're just jealous!" he hissed, his face close to mine. "You're jealous that I love her, and you're taking it out on her things! If you don't tell me where it is, I will make you regret it."

The pressure on my arm was immense. The fresh wound on my side screamed in protest.

"Let go of me," I gasped, struggling against his grip.

He ignored me, dragging me out of my room and down the hall to his study. He threw me inside, and I landed hard on the floor.

The impact sent a shockwave of agony through my ribs. I couldn't even scream. I just lay there, gasping for breath, my eyes filling with tears of pain.

I looked up at him. The brother who used to paint portraits of me, who called me his muse.

He was looking at me now like I was something he'd scraped off his shoe.

"What are you doing?" I managed to choke out.

"Punishing you," he said with a contemptuous sneer.

He walked over to a large glass display case. Inside were all of my achievements. Trophies from academic decathlons, medals from science fairs, and framed certificates from every design competition I had ever won.

My entire life's work, my pride, all neatly displayed.

He reached inside and pulled out my very first award. A small, simple certificate for a city-wide art contest I had won when I was ten. Next to it, he grabbed the framed design for a watch I had created for him on his twentieth birthday. It was my most personal work, a symbol of my affection for him.

Then, he took out a lighter.

He flicked it on, the small flame dancing in the dim light of the study.

He held the flame to the corner of my first certificate.

"Andrew, no!" I cried, scrambling to get up. "What are you doing?"

I watched in horror as the corner of the paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash. Then he moved the flame to my watch design.

"Please, don't," I begged, my voice breaking. "Those are... they're everything to me."

He laughed, a cruel, ugly sound.

"I want you to feel what it's like," he said, his eyes glittering with malice. "To have something you love taken from you."

I stared at him, my vision blurring with tears.

"I didn't take it," I whispered, the words feeling useless. "Why won't you believe me?"

A thousand memories flashed through my mind. Andrew teaching me how to sketch. Andrew praising my first clumsy painting. Andrew holding my hand at our parents' funeral.

The man standing in front of me was a stranger.

"Believe you?" he scoffed. "Why should I? I know how you look at me. You've been in love with me since you were a child. You can't stand that I love Keira, so you're trying to hurt her, to hurt me."

A tear finally escaped and traced a hot path down my cheek. I looked at him, my eyes burning with a hatred I had never felt before.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice hollow.

"I want you to kneel," he said, his voice soft and venomous. "Kneel and apologize. Show me you're sincere."

My breath hitched. Never.

"No."

In response, he dropped the burning papers onto the pile of my other certificates and trophies on the floor. He tossed the lighter on top.

The fire caught instantly, a hungry, roaring flame that began to consume my life's work.

"Do you enjoy this?" I asked, my voice trembling with rage. "Does it make you feel powerful to see me grovel?"

He stepped over the fire and crouched in front of me. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"You need to learn your place, Brooklyn," he whispered. "You're just the adopted girl. You live in our house, on our charity. You should always be on your knees for us."

His words were poison.

I remembered him promising to protect my dreams, to champion my art.

Now he was burning it all to ash in front of my eyes.

The fire reflected in his, and for the first time, I saw only darkness. The love I thought I saw there was just a reflection of my own.

The hate began to bloom in my heart, a dark, thorny vine.

Just as the flames licked at a large silver trophy, the study door burst open.

One of the young maids, Lucy, stood there, her eyes wide with terror. I remembered her; I had helped her cover for a broken vase just last month.

"Mr. Andrew, sir!" she stammered. "The badge! I've seen it!"

Andrew's head snapped around. "What? Where?"

"On... on Ms. Stone's coat," the maid whispered, trembling. "Two days ago. I was taking it to the dry cleaners, and I saw it pinned to the lapel. It was silver, with a little gavel on it. I'm sure it was the one."

Andrew froze. The color drained from his face.

He stared at the fire, at the smoking ruins of my achievements, then back at me, lying broken on the floor.

He looked utterly, completely stunned.

I just looked at him, a bitter, triumphant smile spreading across my face.

"Are you satisfied now, Andrew?"

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He looked like he was going to be sick.

He took a stumbling step toward me, his hand outstretched. "Brooklyn, I... I'm sorry."

I slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me," I hissed, my voice filled with a loathing so profound it scared even me. "I'd rather burn."

I struggled to my feet, ignoring the fire in my side and the fire on the floor, and walked out of the study without looking back.

The next morning, my body aching and my heart numb, I called Mr. Davison.

"The week is up," I told him, my voice cold and clear. "I want to announce my decision at my birthday party tonight."

"Should I inform Mr. Stanton beforehand?" the lawyer asked.

"No," I said. "Just make sure he's there."