Chapter 4I Chose My Castaway Brother

My mother looked away, unable to hold my gaze. She offered no defense.

From that night forward, I stopped throwing tantrums. I stopped screaming. I was too small; I had no power, no money, and no leverage against two grown adults who could silence me with a single blow.

So, I went to Nana.

My maternal grandmother lived in a quiet brownstone on the south side of town, and she had always doted on me.

Using my mother’s old iPad, I snapped a crisp, legible photo of Rowan’s SAT score sheet and his official college admission notification, then showed them to her while she sat in her sunroom peeling apples.

"Nana," I said, keeping my voice very quiet. "Rowan got into the state university's engineering program. Dad is trying to force him to skip it and work at the plant."

The paring knife slipped from her hand, clattering against the glass table.

It was only then that I realized the terrible truth: my parents had lied to everyone. Even Nana had been told that Rowan was happily settled with distant relatives upstate, thriving on a farm, uninterested in higher education.

That very evening, Nana arrived at our front door, accompanied by my Uncle Paul.

Uncle Paul was a partner at a prominent corporate law firm downtown. He didn't waste time on pleasantries; he walked straight into the dining room, unzipped a leather portfolio, and laid Rowan’s birth certificate, the university enrollment deadlines, and the legal parameters of state financial aid squarely on the mahogany table.

My father’s neck flushed red. "This is an internal matter. It belongs within the walls of this house."

Nana struck the Persian rug with the brass tip of her walking cane. The sharp crack made everyone flinch.

"You dumped your firstborn with aging third cousins in the woods for eighteen years," she hissed, her voice trembling with sheer, aristocratic fury, "and now you intend to sabotage his entire future just to save face? You dare call that a private matter?"

My mother buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, but she didn't utter a word in defense of her husband.

Rowan stood leaning against the banister of the staircase, observing the whole scene with an eerie, detached calm.

Cornered and sweating, my father finally retreated an inch. "Nobody said he couldn't go eventually. I simply wanted him to gain some practical, real-world discipline first."

Uncle Paul sneered. "Discipline him until the registration window closes and his seat is forfeited?"

"Enough," Rowan said suddenly.

The room snapped to attention.

His voice was terrifyingly level. "Stop fighting. I don't need their charity. I can work night shifts. I can pay my own way."

My father let out a subtle sigh of relief, but a spike of cold dread lanced through my stomach.

The text in the air was flickering violently, red and frantic:

"WARNING!"

"He is cutting emotional ties completely. This isn't independence—this is the prelude to full abandonment of the bloodline!"

I scrambled out of my chair, dashed across the parquet floor, and grabbed Rowan's sleeve with both hands.

"Rowan, please. You're allowed to lean on your family."

He looked down at me, his gaze dark and impenetrable. "I don't have a family."

That night, Uncle Paul swept the enrollment paperwork into his briefcase. He declared that he would personally oversee Rowan’s university registration and ensure that my father wired the first installment of the tuition directly into an escrow account.

My father slammed the study door so hard the glass panes rattled.

As Rowan passed by me in the upstairs hallway, he paused, his shadow falling over my small frame.

"Did you really think that bringing your grandmother into this would make me grateful to you?" he murmured.

I kept my chin tucked down. "I don't need you to be grateful."

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "I just need you to go to college."

A soft, amber pulse glowed in the air before me:

"Rowan's Resentment Meter: 88."

"A breakthrough. For the first time, he suspects this might not be an act."

"When a kid grows up starved of affection, every 'kindness' they've ever seen came with an extortionate price tag. You're the only person who hasn't asked for a return on investment."

Watching the cold hostility in his posture soften by a fraction of an inch, a quiet, stubborn warmth blossomed in my ribs. It was worth every bit of it.

By late August, the semester was barreling closer.

My father had agreed under family pressure, but behind closed doors, he dragged his feet like lead. The tuition wire was persistently delayed.

"Cash flow is tight at the distribution centers," he would announce casually at breakfast, refusing to meet Rowan’s gaze. "He'll just have to wait for the late-registration window."

Yet, that very same week, a brand-new, polished Steinway upright was delivered to our front parlor.

I was scheduled to perform at the annual regional Chamber of Commerce gala—a high-society charity event where the city’s prominent business owners paraded their cultured children.

I stared at the gleaming, lacquer-black instrument sitting in the living room, and it made my stomach turn.

"I won't play it," I said.

My father pinched the bridge of his nose, his temper flaring. "What kind of stunt are you trying to pull now?"

"Return the piano," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Use the refund to pay Rowan’s tuition."

My father’s face went rigid with fury.

My mother hurried over, kneeling beside me, her hands fluttering anxiously. "Maisie, sweetheart, stop talking like this! This is a gift from your father. It shows how proud he is of you!"

I looked past her, pointing toward the stairs. "Then what about Rowan? He needs to go to school."

My mother froze, her mouth slightly parted, utterly voiceless.

The night of the gala arrived. My father dragged me to the country club auditorium, gripping my hand so tightly my knuckles ached.

"We have taken enough humiliation over the past month," he hissed into my ear before pushing me toward the backstage curtain. "Do not embarrass me in front of these people."

I walked onto the illuminated stage in my stiff tulle dress, the spotlight blindingly hot. Below, hundreds of my father's business associates, investors, and local dignitaries sat around candlelit banquet tables.

I sat down on the velvet piano bench.

My trembling fingers hovered over the ivory keys. But before I could strike the opening chord of the sonatina, a wall of jagged, electric text cascaded down my field of vision:

"CRITICAL TURNING POINT: Rowan's villain origin line is triggering NOW."

"He is currently running a 103.6°F fever, collapsed between the steel racks in the unventilated plant warehouse."

"He tried calling your parents' cell phones three times. Both went straight to voicemail."

"If no one finds him tonight, his Resentment Meter will permanently lock at 100."

"The estrangement timeline will become completely irreversible!"

My hands jerked back from the keys.

I stood straight up.

Down in the VIP row, my father leaned forward, his eyes burning with silent, furious warnings.

The master of ceremonies cleared his throat from the podium, leaning into his microphone with an uneasy laugh. "Is there a problem with the sheet music, little Miss Maisie?"

I didn't answer him. I grabbed the hem of my heavy dress and bolted off the stage.

"I have to go to my brother!"