Chapter 1I Chose My Castaway Brother

On the evening of my eighth birthday, I discovered for the very first time that I had an eighteen-year-old brother.

The party was in full swing when the front door swung open, letting in a draft of chill autumn air. My parents stepped in front of me immediately, shielding my party dress from the boy standing on the doormat.

My father cleared his throat, offering a tense, rehearsed smile to the few guests lingering in the foyer. "Just a young man from the backwoods helping us out with some maintenance this week."

My mother’s nose wrinkled in visible distaste. "He smells like exhaust and stale earth," she whispered under her breath, waving a manicured hand. "Stand back, sweetie. Keep him away from the girl."

I tilted my head, peeking past my father's tailored blazer out of sheer curiosity.

Suddenly, the air in front of my eyes seemed to fracture. Luminous, translucent lines of text rolled across my vision like comments skimming across a livestream screen:

"He is your biological brother. Abandoned in rural upstate backwater by your parents the moment he was born, left to rot."

"He scored a near-perfect 1580 on his SATs. He scraped together bus fare just to see his parents for once, but they're already plotting to block his college enrollment so he can do grueling warehouse shifts to fund your life."

"He will eventually build an empire out of sheer spite, utterly consumed by his hatred for this family."

"He cuts ties completely. Your parents will die sick and destitute, and you will freeze on the streets."

The sheer horror of it cracked through my chest. Tears sprang to my eyes. Without thinking, I broke away from my mother’s grip and threw my small arms around his waist.

"Daddy and Mommy love you so much, Rowan! Please don't leave. Please stay!"

* * *

The grand living room fell into an absolute, suffocating hush.

The color drained from my mother’s face. "Maisie, what on earth are you babbling about?"

My father stepped forward, his jaw tight with poorly suppressed rage. "He is not your brother."

I tilted my face up, digging my small fingers deeper into the worn flannel of his jacket. "He is! He's my brother!"

Rowan finally looked down at me.

His gaze held no trace of warmth. It was flat, gray, and completely hollow, the look of someone who had learned long ago that expecting mercy was an invitation to get hurt. He glanced over my shoulder, taking in the three-tiered strawberry buttercream cake and the polished ebony sheen of the baby grand piano sitting beneath the chandelier.

"Love me?" he murmured. His voice was raspy, edged with ice. "They don't even know what day I was born."

My father’s expression darkened violently. "Rowan. You watch your mouth in this house."

Rowan didn't bother arguing. He simply placed his calloused fingers over mine, prying them off his coat, one by one.

"Don't touch me," he said quietly. "I'm filthy."

A new line of text flickered into the empty space between us:

"Rowan's Resentment Meter: 98."

"The guy's bitterness is nearly maxed out..."

"He doesn't believe a single soul in this house has an ounce of genuine kindness for him."

That night, the candles melted down onto the untouched cake.

My father instructed the housekeeper to stick Rowan in the basement utility room—a windowless space crammed with bleach bottles, mops, and water-damaged cardboard boxes.

Meanwhile, my birthday presents swallowed half the living room, a mountain of pastel ribbons and designer boxes.

The next morning, I didn’t unwrap a single gift.

I padded silently downstairs and pressed my cheek against the cold frame of the half-open basement door. Rowan was sitting on the edge of a sagging cot.

The room was damp, reeking of mildew and harsh cleaning chemicals. An old, unvarnished wooden table wobbled in the corner. Rowan was staring intently at a piece of folded paper under the dim glow of a naked overhead bulb.

My vocabulary was small, but I knew the numbers printed at the top of that standardized score sheet: "1580".

The text unspooled across the air once more:

"Ranked in the top tenth of a percent statewide."

"He needs his official birth certificate and his first-semester tuition deposit."

"Your parents plan to convince him today to forfeit his admission and report to the family packaging plant instead."

Panic seized my chest. I turned and sprinted toward the breakfast nook.

My parents were sipping black coffee and buttering toast.

"He's eighteen," my father was saying, his voice brisk and matter-of-fact. "What good is a four-year degree going to do him anyway? The factory floor is short-handed. Let him learn inventory management in the warehouse for a couple of years."

My mother hesitated, tracing the rim of her porcelain cup. "His academic scores are exceptionally high, though."

My father let out a dry, dismissive scoff. "High scores don't mean a thing when you've grown up feral in the woods. Drop him in an elite university in the city, and he’ll drown in a semester. Besides, Maisie’s private tutoring, the piano masterclasses, the European summer camps—none of that comes cheap."

My mother went quiet.

I slammed through the swinging door. "No!"