Victor’s voice softened, though it still carried the weight of finality. “Take care of everything for a week. I expect you back then.”
And just like that, the call ended before I could say anything more.
I lowered the phone, staring blankly at the dimly lit bedroom around me. The silence felt heavier, oppressive, as if the walls themselves were closing in.
That was Victor. The older brother I once knew—sweet, protective, always teasing me with his rare but affectionate smiles—had disappeared years ago.
By the time he turned twenty, he had abandoned the warmth of the Delaunay estate, choosing solitude over family.
Our parents had asked why, and his response had been curt, “It’s only right that I struggle alone. I’ll return only for important occasions.”
And he had meant it. Even though he still met our father at the office, Victor had become a ghost in our family—present in name, but absent in all else.
I was fifteen at that time, so I had longed for my brother’s presence, missed the way he used to ruffle my hair, missed the way he once doted on me with quiet affection.
But at twenty-four, I felt nothing.