Page 123 of When Hearts Ignite

The flames in my heart refuse to dim, my soul denying this twisted fate as the end.

An icy resolve fills my veins and I breathe in calming breaths of air and brush away the tears from my cheeks.

I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I’ll find the truth, the answers, and until I see the DNA results in front of my eyes, I refuse to accept this is the end for us.

My phone buzzes constantly, but I ignore it. My head feels like it’ll explode alongside my heart, the pain so eviscerating, I wish I were unconscious so I’d be out of this misery.

My mind keeps flashing to the way Mother kneeled with me in the mud and grass, soiling her couture dress. If the revelation came only from her, I might not have believed it. After all, she wasn’t party to the affair. But then, Father’s shock and how he whispered, “Y-You found out? You know?” I’d never forget the horror on his face and how he promptly collapsed in front of me. How I wish he’d tell me it isn’t true.

I don’t want to speak to anyone, not my family, not the Anderson siblings, who’d taken turns appearing at the door of my suite once someone spotted me back at The Orchid, not Charles, not my brothers-in-law, Adrian, Parker, or James.

I don’t want to see anyone except Grace.

Despite everything, I still can’t bring myself to admit she’s my sister, that we’re related by blood.

There’s a rightness between us, the way her rough edges fit against mine, how our souls call out to each other, how our bodies connect and become greater than our individual selves, how everything in the world makes sense when she’s by my side. Life is a sick, cruel joke if this feeling is an illusion.

It’s a terrible nightmare, one I wish I could wake up from. I’d take a thousand nights of violent storms and howling winds over this.

Popping a few ibuprofens, I chase them down with a large sip of water before I stagger back to the sofa in the dark living room. The shades are mostly closed except for a small sliver of light peeping through. I told Jarvis to go home, but he insisted on leaving a sandwich on the counter for me to eat.

“The heart can’t mend until the body has strength,” he said.

But a huge part of me doesn’t want to get over this, because if I accept this pain, I’m accepting reality and perhaps there’s still a kernel of whimsical inside me, a piece of Grace I’m carrying in my chest, the hope somehow, there’s a way out of this, and I can keep loving the only woman who’s ensnared my whole heart and taken off with it.

I frankly don’t think I can ever stop loving her.

I don’t see a way out of this.

The pounding in my chest worsens as I lie on the sofa, staring into the blank ceiling above. Empty, like my soul.

By now, she should’ve woken up and read my letter. I didn’t want to leave her this morning, when she curled up sweetly against my chest, her hand clutching my shoulders like I’d disappear. She had a beautiful bloom on her face. Her chocolate strands spread like a halo on her pillow, but she looked so happy with the small smile on her luscious lips.

She looked breathtaking.

She looked like she belonged there next to me.

She looked like mine.

I wanted to stay by her side as she read the letter, but my heart was too heavy and I couldn’t bear to witness her pain, knowing there was absolutely nothing I could do to heal her, to fix the problem. And so, I ran away, back here to my suite at The Orchid, waiting for her to find me, waiting for her to end things with me, because I know I don’t have the strength to.

I hope my letter brings her answers—at least she doesn’t have to search for her father anymore. At least that hole inside her will be filled. Maybe in time, with distance, I’ll be able to bring myself to see her at family reunions with a smile on my face, making conversation with the man she brings home with her, hiding the pain in my chest, the impulse to punch whoever claims Grace as hers, the clenching and fluttering of my heart in her presence.

Because I don’t foresee myself ever falling out of love for her.

Buzz. Buzz.

As I mull about the dismal future, the doorbell buzzes to the suite.

I don’t move to get off the sofa—it’s probably another Anderson. Why the fuck are there so many of them? I throw my arm over my eyes to block out the sunlight filtering in through the gap between the curtains.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Nuisances, all of them. I groan and yell, “If your last name is Anderson, please go away. I’m alive.”

“It’s me, Grace.”

Her sweet voice jolts me from my stupor, and I sit up, my head protesting at the sudden motion.

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