Then Victoria arrived in our lives for real. She wasn’t just a playmate anymore; she became part of the family when her parents died in an accident. She was six. Lost. Quiet. I remember feeling so much pity for her, so much instinctive protectiveness, that when my parents said she’d be spending most holidays with us and the twins, I didn’t complain.
We all grew up together like that—an unbreakable circle.
Or so I thought.
Maxon was the first to break it.
He confessed to me when we were fifteen. Brazen and stupid, that boy. His cheeks were red, but he still smirked like he wasn’t scared.
But I was.
“You’re a playboy,” I had said sharply. “You don’t know what love is.”
He had laughed, pretending it didn’t matter, but I saw it—just for a flash—in his eyes: the hurt. Or maybe his pride shattering. I’ll never know.
Still, I tried. At first. I tried to see where it might go.
But then Lewis happened. Quiet, careful Lewis. The one who didn’t make grand gestures but made me feel… safe. Seen. Wanted in a way that wasn’t loud or exhausting.