Chapter 1My Forbidden Diary Prank Backfired Perfectly

My brother has always had the pathological habit of reading my diary.

To cure him of it once and for all, I decided to lean into his worst nightmare. I sat down and penned a masterpiece of pure fiction:

"I think I’m falling for my brother. This forbidden pull… it’s agony, but I’m addicted to the pain of loving him."

The result? My brother looked like he was having a literal stroke. He spent the next forty-eight hours trying to build a metaphorical Berlin Wall between us.

But just when he was about to lose his mind avoiding me, a pair of luxury SUVs pulled up to our driveway. A couple draped in old-money couture burst through our front door, threw their arms around him, and sobbed, "Oh, thank God! We finally found our son!"

Me: ???

So... we aren't actually related? In that case... does the stuff I wrote in the diary still count as a prank, or is it a prophecy?

* * *

For as long as I’ve had memories, Beckett Miller has been there.

When I first learned to speak, his was the first name I called out. My dad loves to tell the story of how I said "Beck" before I even said "Dada," like I’d been practicing the name in a past life.

At my first birthday party, dozens of relatives tried to pass me around like a prize, but I wouldn't have it. I screamed until my tiny fingers were wrapped firmly around Beckett’s thumb. I wouldn't let go for anything.

As far as brothers go, Beck was the gold standard.

When I was six, I mistook a bottle of orange-scented dish soap for juice and ended up in the ER. Beck stayed by my hospital bed for two days straight. He didn't eat, didn't sleep; he just sat there looking like a ghost, guarding me.

When I was ten, I decided it was a good idea to try and ride the neighbor’s Golden Retriever across a busy street. My dad was halfway across the yard with a belt in his hand when Beck stepped in. He shielded me like a mother hen protecting a chick. Dad’s hand slipped and caught Beck across the face, but he didn't even flinch. He just stood his ground.

When I was fourteen, we were watching some teen drama where the main characters stole their birth certificates to run away and elope. Beck looked at my dad, genuinely curious. "Why would they bother stealing a piece of paper?"

My dad laughed, leaning back in his recliner. "Because they wanted to get married, son. Getting married means putting both your names on the same legal documents forever."

By then, Beck was already pushing six feet, with that clean-cut, athletic look that made every girl in his high school class trip over their own feet when he walked by. He took in my dad’s words with a look of sudden, profound realization.

"Oh, I get it," Beck said seriously. "Then I should just marry Sloane."

My dad nearly choked on his beer. "Excuse me?"

"Well," Beck continued, completely unfazed, "our names are already on all the same papers. We’ve lived in the same house since she was born. It’s efficient."

My dad stared at him for a long beat, then slowly reached for the nearest throw pillow to hurl at Beck’s head. Beck ducked, laughing, and turned to me. "What do you think, Sloane? Makes sense, right?"

I was young and naive, so I just nodded enthusiastically. "Whatever Beckett says is right!"

My dad stopped mid-swing, sighed deeply, and muttered something about needing a stronger drink and a locked door for his daughter’s room.