Chapter 6: The Brother’s Choice
The silence in my office was short-lived. Barely an hour after Bianca had left, the door pushed open again. This time, it wasn’t a fragile, crumbling socialite, but Julian. He looked aged—the sharp, arrogant jawline I’d known all my life was slack, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked like a man who had spent the last forty-eight hours realizing he had no home to go to, no reputation to lean on, and no sister to bail him out.
He didn’t try to play the "golden boy" role. He didn't puff out his chest. He just walked to the center of the office and stood there, staring at the floor, surrounded by the remnants of the life he thought he had earned.
"I saw her leaving," he said, his voice barely a rasp. "She didn't even look at me. She just walked past me like I was a stranger."
"To her, you are," I replied, not looking up from my monitor. "You’re an accessory, Julian. When the accessory stops being shiny, the wearer discards it."
He winced, a genuine spark of pain crossing his face. "I know. I know how this looks. I know what I did—or, more accurately, what I let happen."
I finally looked up. "You let her pour wine on me, Julian. You watched her treat me like a servant, and you didn't even blink. You were worried about the optics of the party, not the dignity of your own sister."
He sank into the chair Bianca had occupied. For a moment, the room felt like it was shrinking. The dynamic of our entire childhood had been built on this: he was the center, and I was the support. He had been allowed to float because I was tethered to the ground, holding the anchor.
"I was a coward," he admitted, the words clearly tasting like ash. "I wanted that life. I wanted the status, the connections, the feeling that I had finally arrived. And she... she sold me a version of a future that felt so bright I didn't care who I had to step over to get there."
"Including me," I reminded him.
"Especially you," he whispered. "I treated you like an ATM because I was too lazy to be a brother. I wanted the perks without the work."
He looked up, his eyes glassy. "I’m not asking for money, Elizabeth. I don't even know if I have a bank account left. But I have to know... was there ever a moment where you actually wanted to help me? Or was this entire thing, these last few years, just a long-con waiting for this exact explosion?"
It was a fair question. I leaned back, weighing the truth. "In the beginning? I wanted to help you because I loved you. I thought if I gave you enough, you’d eventually stand on your own two feet and realize you didn't need the status. But the more I gave, the more you needed. You didn't want a sister; you wanted a safety net."
I stood up and walked over to the safe in the corner of the room. I opened it and pulled out a single, plain envelope.
"I’m not giving you a bailout, Julian. I’m not paying your legal fees, and I’m not fixing your credit score."
I slid the envelope across the desk. He opened it, his hands trembling. It wasn't money. It was a list of addresses—small, modest rental properties I had purchased years ago under a different holding company—and a contact for a firm that handled honest, grueling work.
"That’s a place to live for three months," I said. "And the address of a firm that doesn't care about your family name. They only care about your output. You can go there, or you can go to the streets. The choice is yours. For the first time in your life, you are entirely responsible for the outcome of your own day."
He stared at the paper, then at me. There was no entitlement left, just a heavy, crushing dose of reality. He didn't thank me. He didn't apologize again. He simply nodded, took the envelope, and stood up.
As he reached the door, he stopped. "I deserve this, don't I?"
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"You deserve the chance to be a real person, Julian," I said, turning back to my work. "Whether or not you choose to take it is no longer my business."
He left, and as the door clicked shut, the last tether to my old life snapped. I wasn't just relieved; I felt a strange, terrifying sense of potential. I had finally cleared the room of everyone who thought I belonged to them.
