The Breaking Of Silence
Kit woke slowly.
Early light crept through the blinds, striping his bedroom in thin gold lines. His phone lay untouched on the nightstand—screen dark, but the ache in his chest still pulsed from the night before. That call. That name.
Downstairs, he heard soft footsteps. His stepmother—already awake, already in motion. Probably heading to the kitchen like always.
The house felt sterile. Unfamiliar. Like even the walls held their breath. Without his mother, it had never felt like home. Just a shell pretending.
He pulled on a shirt, stiff movements betraying the knot still lodged in his gut. He forced his shoulders to straighten.
Delorah couldn't see this version of him.
Not the one his father summoned by name.
Not Adrian.
Not the obedient son wrapped in someone else's future.
Downstairs, she was waiting. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp.
"Well, Adrian," she said, her voice smooth but carved from ice. "Did you sleep at all? I trust last night's conversation with your father gave you plenty to think about."
Kit gritted his teeth. Nodded once. "I'm handling it."
She gave a tight smile. "Good. Because the contract with that family… it was signed last night. Your father expects you to be ready."
Ready.
The word curdled in his mouth.
"I understand," Kit said softly. "I'll do what's necessary."
For a brief second, her gaze flickered—something almost kind, almost human. But the mask didn't slip.
"We're all counting on you."
She left the room.
And Kit stood alone.
The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.
The name Adrian—the boy who'd watched his mother burn, the boy who lived—tightened around his throat like a noose.
He pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Delorah:
> Things are getting worse. Just… don't forget who I am when this all hits. Not Adrian. Just me.
He didn't know if she'd reply.
Didn't know if she even could anymore.
But he needed her to remember him.
Not the version his father named.
Not the pawn.
Just Kit.
---
Kit pushed his plate away. The last bite of breakfast sat like ash in his mouth—flavorless, heavy. His stepmother's words still echoed, looping through his head with that thin, clinical finality: "The contract was signed."
The front door creaked.
"Looking for me?"
Sebastian's voice sliced through the quiet like a blade dipped in honey.
Kit barely had time to react before his brother appeared in the doorway—perfect posture, perfectly pressed clothes, a storm in a suit. He leaned casually against the counter, radiating heat where the room had just been cold.
That grin.
That predator's smile.
"I hear you're still in the dark about some family business," Sebastian said, his voice a soft cut. His gray eyes gleamed like polished steel.
Kit's jaw tensed. "What are you talking about?"
Sebastian chuckled, slow and deliberate, taking a few steps closer. "Last night. Delorah and I." He reached for an apple from the counter, tossed it in the air, caught it without looking. "Our families made it official."
He bit into it with a satisfying crunch.
"We're engaged."
He let the word settle.
"She's going to be my wife, Adrian. Isn't that something?"
The breath left Kit's lungs.
The kitchen blurred around the edges.
Engaged?
Last night?
No. No, that couldn't—
That wasn't—
"You're… what?" he choked out, the word barely forming.
"Surprised?" Sebastian tilted his head, biting off another piece of the apple. "You should be. You didn't even know, did you? Funny how these things happen behind your back."
Kit's fists clenched beneath the table.
"You're gloating."
"I'm informing," Sebastian said smoothly, brushing nonexistent lint off his cuff. "And maybe gloating a little. Can you blame me? She's perfect for me. Powerful. Sharp. From a family that actually means something."
He leaned in just slightly, his smile turning razor-sharp.
"Not like you.
Just the forgotten son playing dress-up behind a fake name."
Kit felt the words like fire up his throat. But he refused to flinch. Not here. Not in front of him.
"This isn't over."
Sebastian's smile only widened. "Oh, little brother… it's barely begun."
He tossed the half-eaten apple onto Kit's untouched plate and turned for the door.
"You'll get your part in all this, whether you like it or not. Daddy made sure of that."
With that, Sebastian turned on his heel and left.
Kit didn't move.
The weight of his brother's words settled in his chest like a stone in water—sinking deeper with every breath, dragging him down inch by inch.
Delorah. Engaged. To Sebastian.
It didn't feel real. Couldn't be. The world around him blurred at the edges, sound muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. He stood in the center of the kitchen—unchanged, untouched—while everything inside him fractured.
His thoughts scrambled, desperate for something solid.
Some thread he'd missed.
Some warning she would've given.
But there had been nothing.
Just the night air on her skin.
Her laughter in the dark.
Her hand brushing his.
Just her.
Kit swallowed hard, the taste of coffee and ash still clinging to his tongue. His stomach twisted violently.
Of course it was Sebastian.
Of course his father would tie their families together through the golden son—the one who played his part, who wore the name with pride. The one who had always stood beneath the spotlight while Kit—
Kit was the shadow.
The smoke.
The silence after something beautiful burned down.
His fingers curled tightly around the counter's edge. White-knuckled. Shaking.
And now Delorah—Del, the only person who had seen him instead of Adrian—was being pulled into the same script. Folded into the same performance.
A bitter laugh caught in his throat.
She didn't know. She couldn't have known.
She would've told me.
…Wouldn't she?
But then came the whisper. The one that sounded too much like truth.
> You're not the version of yourself they want.
You're not Adrian.
You're Kit.
The mistake.
His jaw locked. He dragged in a breath like it might hold him together. It didn't.
No.
No—he couldn't stay here. Couldn't let it root.
His mind buzzed, spiraling through every door he couldn't open, every word he couldn't take back.
If he could just—
Kit turned from the counter and walked out of the kitchen. Fast. Urgent. Like if he stopped moving, the grief would catch up and drag him under.
.
.
.
.
Delorah sat at the kitchen table, her untouched toast growing cold on the plate in front of her. The butter had melted into the bread—one more thing dissolving without her permission.
Across from her, her mother sipped espresso with the same calm detachment she used to deliver catastrophic news. Like announcing they'd be relocating to Switzerland. Or pulling Del from school to attend a last-minute gala in Milan. Always with elegance. Always with distance.
But today, the quiet was heavier.
Intentional.
Measured.
Del picked at the corner of her toast, then set it down.
"You're being weird," she said finally.
Her mother blinked, setting the cup down with a soft clink of porcelain on glass. "Am I?"
"Yes. You are. And you've been weird since last night."
Through the wide glass doors, her father stood on the terrace, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing like he was negotiating a trade deal. But it wasn't him that made her skin crawl—it was the glance he and her mother had exchanged earlier.
The one she caught in the mirror.
Quick. Knowing. Final.
And the sudden, mysterious dinner they'd insisted she dress up for last night—the one that still made her stomach twist.
Her mother folded her hands. "You're seventeen now."
"I'm aware," Del said flatly.
"And you know how important our family name is. How delicate these arrangements can be."
Delorah's pulse slowed. Her stomach dropped.
No.
No.
Her mother reached into her handbag and pulled out a thick, cream-colored folder—tied with a satin ribbon, like it was meant to be opened with gratitude.
She slid it across the table.
"What is this?" Del asked, but she didn't touch it.
Her mother offered a polite, contained smile. "An opportunity. For all of us."
Delorah reached out with numb fingers.
Opened the folder.
Preliminary Marital Agreement
…
Sebastian Victor Honey
The name screamed from the page like it had teeth.
Del stared.
The blood drained from her face.
"You can't be serious."
"We are," her mother said, tone smooth as silk. "It's been signed. Finalized last night in good faith between both families. Sebastian is an excellent match—"
"Sebastian is—"
Her voice cracked.
She stood so fast her chair scraped loudly across the tile.
"He's Kit's brother. He knows I—"
The words slipped out too fast.
Too raw.
Her mother's eyes sharpened like glass under pressure.
"You've been seeing Kit?"
"I haven't been seeing anyone," Del lied, voice brittle as ice. "He's in one of my classes. That's it."
A long pause followed.
Her mother tapped her nails against the rim of her espresso cup—rhythmic, controlled.
"Be careful, Delorah. You're not a little girl anymore. And in this world, there's no such thing as harmless attachment."
Delorah's jaw trembled. "I didn't agree to this."
"You didn't have to."
Her mother's tone softened, but it made the words worse.
"You're part of something bigger than just yourself now."
Del's breath caught. Her heart twisted, tight and unforgiving.
"I won't do it," she whispered.
Her mother didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The contract sat between them like a loaded gun, and the silence that followed felt like the click of a safety coming off.
.
.
.
.
Delorah shut her bedroom door with more force than intended. The sharp click echoed behind her like the last word in an argument she hadn't been allowed to finish.
Her mother's voice still rang in her ears—cool, composed, and chillingly detached as she spoke of family legacy and what's best for everyone. But never once had she said Delorah's name like it mattered. As if Del was just… inventory. A strategic asset.
Not a person.
Not a girl.
Something to sell off with a signed contract.
She paced once, then twice, breath shallow. Her fingers flexed at her sides like they were trying to claw her way out of this skin.
Her phone buzzed.
She froze.
Turned.
Snatched it from the bed, expecting a useless alert or maybe something from Cassie.
But it wasn't.
Kit.
Things are getting worse. Just… don't forget who I am when this all hits.Not Adrian. Just me.
Delorah's breath caught.
She sat slowly on the edge of the mattress, like if she moved too fast, the message might disappear.
The ache in her chest surged—not just at the words, but at the way he wrote them. Like he was already dissolving.
Like he'd already lost the fight to stay himself.
Like he believed they were winning.
She stared at the screen.
Then typed—slow at first, then faster. Each word pulling at the tight seam in her chest until it split open.
Delorah:
I won't forget. Not now. Not ever.
I don't care what they're planning, I still see you.
The one who stayed with me that night.
The one who looked scared when he said his real name.
That's the one I'm holding on to.
Her thumb hovered over the send button—just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the fear whisper, what if it's too late?
She hit send anyway.
The message left with a quiet whoosh.
And for the first time that morning, her hands didn't shake quite so much.
.
.
.
Kit was still sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over like something heavy had been stitched into his spine.
The house felt colder than it was—like even the walls had heard what Sebastian said.
Delorah. Contract. Marriage.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't think straight.
The silence was roaring.
Then his phone buzzed in his hand.
He almost didn't look—expecting another missed call from his father. Or a message from Sebastian, twisting the knife.
But it was her.
> I won't forget. Not now. Not ever.
I don't care what they're planning, I still see you.
The one who stayed with me that night.
The one who looked scared when he said his real name.
That's the one I'm holding on to.
Kit blinked hard.
The message blurred before he realized he wasn't breathing. He dragged in a breath like it hurt—chest tight, throat tighter.
She saw him.
Not Kit.
Not Adrian.
Him.
That fractured thing in between. The one that didn't know how to be anything but scared, and angry, and pretending.
His thumbs hovered over the screen.
Kit:
I don't deserve that.
But I need it anyway.
A pause.
Kit:
You're the only thing that feels real right now.
He hit send.
Dropped the phone beside him.
Leaned forward, elbows to knees, both hands pressing into his face.
She didn't know yet.
Didn't know what they'd done.
What they were planning.
But she would. Soon.
And when she did?
He could only hope she still meant every word.
---
He didn't even realize he was reaching for the notebook until it was already open on his lap.
A familiar torn page.
A pen with the cap still in his teeth.
Words spilling before he could stop them—again.
---
Kit's Private Journal
I don't remember who I was before her.
Maybe I never existed properly until that night.
Maybe I'm just a half-written name, waiting for someone else to finish the sentence.
You looked at me like I was something more.
Not a ghost. Not a lie.
Just a boy.
Just a heartbeat.
Just enough.
If I'm slipping, hold on.
And if I fall—burn the world until you find me.
(Bottom corner, scrawled sideways):
If they take everything else, please remember I was real.