Kara didn't sleep that night.
She sat by her window, staring at the moonlit skyline, her fingers nervously twirling the edge of a worn-out blanket Ethan had once given her. Her thoughts drifted back to him—her twin, her protector, the only person who had ever truly known her heart.
They hadn't spoken properly in weeks.
Ever since her last outburst, Ethan had kept his distance, hurt not just by her actions, but by her refusal to let him in. It wasn't anger he wore when he looked at her—it was something worse.
Disappointment.
The next morning, the household was quiet. Malcolm had gone to work early, and Alden was on a business call in his study. Kara walked slowly to the kitchen, her limbs heavy as though she hadn't slept in days.
She poured herself a glass of water and stood there, staring at her reflection in the windowpane.
"You need to apologize."
The voice behind her startled her.
It was Ethan.
He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes unreadable. He wasn't angry—but there was a distance in his voice that made her heart clench.
Kara swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
"You never mean to, Kara," Ethan interrupted softly. "But people still get hurt."
She turned, gripping the counter. "I... I was just tired. That woman at the office... she said things—about me, about being unwanted. It brought everything back."
"I know," Ethan said gently. "But reacting with violence doesn't change the past. It just keeps us chained to it."
Her lips trembled. "Do you think I'm broken?"
"No," he said without hesitation. "But I think you're lost. And I don't know if I can keep dragging you back if you don't want to be found."
His words didn't come from a place of cruelty. They came from love—and exhaustion.
Kara nodded slowly, her voice barely a whisper. "Will you come with me… if I go back to therapy?"
Ethan stepped forward and placed his hand over hers. "Every time."
Just then, Alden entered the kitchen, his phone tucked under his arm.
"I've made arrangements," he announced. "There's a residential center just outside the city. Private. Peaceful. They specialize in trauma recovery and emotional rehabilitation. If you're serious, Kara, they're ready to take you in this week."
Kara looked between the two men. For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel cornered. She felt… seen.
"Okay," she said softly. "I'll go."
Alden exhaled, visibly relieved. "Thank you."
Kara turned to Ethan. "Will you visit?"
"Try to stop me."
As the sun rose higher, bathing the room in gold, something shifted. It wasn't healing yet—but it was the first step. And that mattered.
Because sometimes, even the most broken souls just need someone to believe they're worth saving.
The therapy center was nestled on a quiet hill, surrounded by trees that swayed gently in the wind like they were whispering forgotten lullabies. The road to it was winding and silent—no traffic, no honking, no chaos. Just peace. Too much peace, Kara thought.
She sat in the backseat of the black SUV, her fingers tapping nervously on her knees. Ethan had come along, just as he promised, and now he sat beside her, quiet but firm, his presence anchoring her frayed nerves.
"You don't have to stay," she said, eyes glued to the gravel path as they neared the gates.
"I'm not leaving until you walk through those doors," Ethan replied. "And I'll be here when you come out."
Kara didn't answer, but she nodded. Just knowing he was there made the air easier to breathe.
The gates opened slowly, revealing a modest compound with ivy-covered walls, soft stone pathways, and benches under willow trees. It didn't look like a mental health facility. It looked like a place where someone might come to remember who they were.
A smiling woman in her forties greeted them at the reception. Her name was Dr. Leona Mills, a trauma therapist with years of experience and a calm, wise demeanor. She shook Kara's hand warmly and welcomed her inside like she wasn't a patient—but a guest.
"This isn't a prison, Kara," Dr. Mills said gently as she led her through the main hallway. "You can leave whenever you want. But if you choose to stay, we will walk with you. Not ahead of you. Not behind. With you."
Kara didn't respond. Her eyes darted around the halls—other patients walking slowly through the corridors, some chatting in the garden, others painting quietly in the art room. No judgment. No whispers. Just stillness.
Her room was small but cozy. A single bed, a desk, a large window overlooking the garden, and a journal resting on the nightstand. A note was tucked in the journal:
"You are not your past. You are not your pain. You are the story that still has pages to be written."
Kara ran her fingers across the words. Something tightened in her chest.
Dr. Mills gave her space but promised to meet her later for their first session. Ethan helped unpack her small bag, then stood in the doorway for a long while.
"Text me. Or don't. Just know I'm always a call away," he said.
"I'm scared," she admitted, her voice soft.
"So was I," he smiled faintly. "When you fainted on the road, I thought I'd lost you. But we're still here. Still standing."
They hugged. Kara didn't cry. But when he finally left and the door closed behind him, she sat on the bed and let the silence wrap around her. She was alone—but not abandoned.
Later that evening, during her first session, Dr. Mills handed her the journal and asked a simple question: "If your pain could speak, what would it say?"
Kara stared at the blank page.
Then slowly, shakily, she began to write.
"I am tired of being feared. I only ever wanted to be understood."
Back home, the house felt quieter. Not peaceful—just quieter, like something vital was missing.
Alden sat at the edge of his study desk, papers sprawled before him, none of which made any sense at the moment. His once tidy routines had become tangled ever since Kara left for the therapy center. Though he knew it was for the best, the silence she left behind gnawed at him more than her loud outbursts ever had.
He looked at the family photo on his desk—an older one, taken during a happier time, before everything had unraveled. Before Kara began lashing out. Before Ethan started hiding his own wounds to protect hers. Before he, Alden, had failed to see just how deep his children's pain had grown.
The phone buzzed—an update from his assistant about Trina's case. The girl's family was still trying to milk the incident for all it was worth. Alden had kept the media at bay, but tension still brewed within the company walls. Employees were gossiping. Investors had started asking questions. And the more Alden tried to shield Kara's reputation, the more cracks formed in his own.
He leaned back in the chair and sighed.
Across the hall, Ethan was in his room, laptop open but untouched. He was supposed to be studying, but his mind kept drifting. He'd checked his phone five times in the last hour, hoping for a message from Kara—even just a word to say she was okay.
Instead, he stared at the old hoodie draped over his chair. Kara's hoodie. She'd left it behind. He picked it up and pressed it against his chest for a moment, a bitter-sweet comfort.
"She's stronger than she knows," he whispered to himself.
Outside, the house staff moved around quietly. Even they felt it—the absence of Kara's chaos, her voice, her demands, her heavy silences. And although life was calmer, it wasn't better. It was waiting. All of them were waiting.
At dinner, Alden and Ethan sat across from each other, plates untouched.
"Think she'll come back angry?" Ethan asked, forcing a smirk.
Alden chuckled dryly. "I'd be worried if she came back polite."
They both laughed—brief, awkward—but it softened the tension between them.
"I want to visit her," Ethan said.
"She needs space right now," Alden replied. "But soon. When she's ready."
There was a pause.
"Do you think I was too late?" Alden asked suddenly, the weight of the question heavy.
Ethan met his father's eyes. "We both were," he answered. "But we're here now."
Alden nodded, swallowing the guilt. "Then we'll stay here. No matter what."