Four Brothers and a Bride

Chapter 235: Chapter 235

ALVA

The last sentence of my novel stares back at me long after I finish my third read for the day. No errors detected, again. For a long moment, I simply sit there, fingers hovering over the keyboard, as if the laptop might suddenly decide the manuscript is incomplete and spit it back out at me.

But it doesn’t. The blinking cursor waits patiently at the bottom of the page, beneath the final line of Chapter Thirty-two.

I lean back slowly in my chair and rub my eyes. It’s done. I can’t believe I stuck it out to the finish line. I pinch myself. How did I go from "I should probably write a book documenting my shitty life story" and the prolonged days of, I’ll get back to this later". To writing the last sentence? something inside my chest loosens for the first time in weeks, maybe months.

The edits the literary agent suggested had felt intrusive at first., like a stranger trying to rearrange the furniture in a house he didn’t build.

But somewhere along the process of polishing the manuscript, something strange happened. The story started feeling different, especially to me. It stopped feeling like a pile of memories stitched together with lies.

Instead, it felt... whole.

My gaze drifts toward the couch across the room.

Naomi sits there curled into one corner, a stack of printed pages in her hands. The manuscript I gave her rests against her knees, the edges already dog-eared from her relentless flipping of the pages. A strand of dark curls has escaped the loose knot at the back of her head, falling across her cheek.

She hasn’t spoken in nearly twenty minutes. That alone makes my pulse climb. When she reads something she hates, she’s quick to say it, brutally quick.

Which means the silence could go either way.

Her eyes move steadily across the final page. Then she stops. My chest tightens as a few seconds pass. She slowly lowers the manuscript.

For a moment she just stares at me. The look in her eyes sends something uneasy crawling through my ribs.

"You’re done?" she asks quietly, her brows arched. It’s painfully difficult to read her face right now.

"Yeah. I think so" I try to sound casual and unbothered by the weight of anything she’s got to say to me. It doesn’t work.

Her gaze drops back to the stack of pages, like she needs to confirm the evidence in her hands. Then suddenly she stands.

Before I can ask what’s wrong, she crosses the room in three long strides and throws her arms around me. I stiffen in surprise. Her hug is tight and fierce, the kind that she uses to press her warmth straight through my bones.

When she pulls back, there are tears glistening in her eyes.

"What?" I ask cautiously.

She laughs breathlessly. "This book is...incredible."

"Does that mean it’s good?" I need her to be as blunt as possible.

Nomi stares at me like I’ve just insulted her intelligence. "Good?" she repeats. "Alva, it’s devastating."

I tilt my head. "That doesn’t sound like praise."

"It’s the best kind of praise." She grabs the manuscript again, flipping through the pages like she needs to reassure herself it’s still there. "The grief in this story...the guilt, the longing. It feels so real it almost hurts to read."

I feel a strange warmth bloom in my chest but doubt creeps in immediately after.

"You’re biased," I tell her, throwing my hands in the air. "It’s my fault for giving my girlfriend my first novel to critique. Of course, you’re going to massage my ego."

Her eyes snap up. "Oh, please." She folds her arms. "First of all, that’s a rude assumption, and secondly, anyone with half-decent taste in literature would appreciate the rawness in this."

Her voice softens as she taps the manuscript. "There’s something brutally honest about it."

That word. Honest. It prickles under my skin.

Naomi shifts her weight awkwardly. "You know, stories with this much grit usually come from seasoned writers."

My stomach tightens slightly, knowing where she appears to be going with this. I don’t like it.

"Meaning?"

She tilts her head, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "When new authors write with this kind of emotional depth, it usually means one thing."

I stay silent, hating every second she continues to watch my face carefully. "It usually means they’re drawing from personal experience or from someone very close to them."

The room feels smaller all of a sudden, the second she finishes. Her gaze sharpens when I meet her eyes.

"Who is the story really about, Alva? You’ve never told me." Then her voice softens with her eyes. "Is it about you?"

I laugh out loud, closing a hand over my tummy to steady myself. "Are you serious? Me? Why would you think that?"

I walk to the dining table, grab what’s left of our lunch wine and pour myself a glass.

"No, Nomi. It’s mostly fiction. Yes, like most authors, I may have drawn from some real-life experiences around me but the rest of it is courtesy of my fertile imagination." I down the wine in three gulps.

Her eyebrows rise slightly. "You’re sure?"

"Absolutely." I wave a hand dismissively before pouring another glass. "I had a normal childhood. Two parents, a stable home." My voice stays smooth through the practiced lie. It even amazes me how easy this has become.

"My mother died when I was younger. She got ill."

Nomi studies my face. "Sorry about that. You never talk about your family."

I shrug. "Not much to say."

Her expression softens. "I’d like to meet your father someday."

My fingers tighten around the glass stem as a faint tension coils in my stomach. "Someday." I repeat carefully. "But not right now. Right now, things between us are... complicated."

Before she can press further, I retreat to the couch and gather the pages of the manuscript into a neat stack. I slide the manuscript into a leather folder. My mind is already turning toward the next step; the agent. I need a professional pair of eyes to review my book, one that doesn’t have stars floating in them because of me.

Thinking about the agent makes a faint irritation sizzle in my brain. The guy is... a lot to say the least, but I need his take on my draft.

Nomi watches me pack the pages away.

"So, have you changed your mind about publishing your work?"

I pause to glance at her. Her eyes light up immediately.

"You should," she continues quickly. "This story deserves to be on shelves. Barnes & Noble. Waterstones. Everywhere." The enthusiasm in her voice is almost contagious. Almost, yet nerve-wracking too. I haven’t allowed myself to think that far ahead. If having one reader’s feedback can make me so tensed, I can’t imagine more reviews from absolute strangers who don’t mind my feelings.

"I’m not sure, Nomi. I’ll think about it."

Her shoulders slump slightly. "Think about it?"

"Yeah. I don’t know. I might start small; beta readers, writing platforms and whatnot."

"And then?"

"Then, I’ll decide if I’m ready for the world to judge it."

She chews her lip thoughtfully. "Okay. I guess that’s better than your original plan; shutting your laptop and forgetting it forever."

I point a finger at her. "You have to promise me something. I don’t need you ’helping’ me behind my back. I’ll handle this at my own pace and if I eventually choose to pull the plug on this project, you can’t hassle me for it. You just have to support my decision."

She winces. "That happened one time, Alva."

"You sent my manuscript to a literary agent without talking to me first."

"And look how that turned out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Just promise me."

She sighs dramatically. "Fine. I promise not to help my amazing and talented boyfriend to show the world what a treasure he is."

Her lips curl in a mischievous smile "On one condition though, I want a copy."

"A copy?"

"Yes." She hugs the manuscript folder. "Because once you send it to the agent, he’s definitely going to suggest professional edits. That could ultimately require significant changes to the story. Problem is, I love what I just read and I want to keep the story the way it is right now."

I hesitate. "You’re ridiculous."

"Please?" She tilts her head in that dangerously effective way she knows I can’t resist.

I exhale. "Fine."

She throws her hands over my neck and pulls me in for a kiss.

***

Two days later, I meet with Langley, the agent. The café hasn’t changed since our first meeting. Langley looks exactly as I remember him—sharp suit, calculating smile, eyes that miss absolutely nothing.

"Alva!" he greets enthusiastically.

This time I don’t flinch when he adds, "Or would you prefer, E. K. Harrow?"

I slide into the chair across from him. "You read the new draft?"

He leans back slowly, exhaling like a man who’s just finished a marathon.

"Kid... you fixed it."

My eyebrow lifts. "Fixed what?"

"The missing piece." His fingers tap the table. The token the mother left behind. The letter was a fine touch. That addition broke me."

For a moment I don’t answer. Then I say quietly, "You wanted authenticity."

He studies me. "I did, and you didn’t disappoint. Now, I want the chance to publish it."

The desperation in his tone is almost amusing.

"You really believe in it that much?"

"Believe?" he scoffs. "I know a manuscript that will have a coveted place at the top shelf when I see one. This book will explode."

I shrug. "I’m not interested in fame. Forgive me but I really got into writing because it felt cathartic."

Langley’s brows slash upwards with curiosity. He leans forward. "Then, what are you interested in?"

"Anonymity."

He blinks. "You’re serious."

"If I must publish, I want to publish it anonymously. E.K Harrow."

"And?"

"No signings. No interviews. Nothing public."

Langley rubs his temple slowly. "That’s frustrating. You’ll be leaving a lot of money on the table if you market your book behind a mask.."

"I don’t care about the money. I’m financially stable. I just want the story out there."

Then he leans back in his chair, shoulders sagging slightly. "Why are you determined to clip this book’s wings before it even flies?"

I shrug again. "I never planned on becoming a traditionally published author."

"So why send it to me?"

"My girlfriend insisted." I lie.

He laughs softly. "Well, I should send her flowers."

"I write because I enjoy it," I continue. "Not because I want a career."

Langley drums his fingers against the table. "With a debut novel like this, it’ll be tough. What if we compromise? We define boundaries."

He leans forward with a spark in his eyes. "You choose which public activities you’re willing to engage in and we’ll skip the rest."

I consider this, but then I shake my head. "You’d still expect some publicity."

"Of course."

"I can’t guarantee that."

He sighs. "If you scrap everything after I’ve poured my time into making this book a bestseller, that’s not something I can accept."

I nod slowly. "Fair. Then I’ll publish it myself online."

His head snaps up as I surge to my feet.

"Wait." He runs a hand through his hair. "Let’s meet halfway."

"How?"

"If anonymity is your concern," he says carefully, "we can protect that." His gaze sharpens. "But don’t throw away the opportunity completely. I’m sure we can work out a way to cope with the demands of publishing this book. You just have to trust me."

Silence stretches between us. Finally, I sit down again. "Fine, let’s hear it."

After Marcus leaves, I stay behind and order lunch. The café grows busier around me I barely notice until two ladies at the next table start talking loudly.

"Did you hear about Demi Branson?"

My fork pauses mid-air.

"She left Danvarr." The first lady adds.

"What?"

"Apparently a week ago."

My heart skips. Demi did what now? How did I not hear a blip of this?

"A whole week?" the other woman gasps. "That’s insane. If the Billion-Err blog was still active, we would’ve known about it immediately."

Slowly, I pull out my phone. My fingers move automatically across the screen. Danvarr gossip blogs explode onto the display and there she is.

There are blurry photos from the airport security footage. It sure looks like Demi Branson dragging a suitcase through the terminal. There are no Rollins brothers in sight, except for one strange man who looks like her bodyguard.

The headline screams speculation.

BREAKUP? BROKE? SECRET PREGNANCY?

The comments underneath are even worse.

My stomach twists as I skim them. I stand so suddenly my drink nearly tips over. Outside the café, the sunlight feels harsh against my eyes.

Hastily, I dial Marcel’s number and true to form, he doesn’t pick up. A cold anger spreads through my chest.

So, he ran off with his niece? Even when I threatened him not to? I can’t believe he’ll test me like this but I’m happy to play that game. I tried being calm and giving him a chance but he clearly has proved that he doesn’t want my rationality. Now, I’ll show what a bastard can really do.

By nightfall, I’ve made several calls and pulled a few favors. I follow the leads and eventually, Demi’s new location lands in my inbox; Willowridge.

I stare at the name for a long moment, a small smile playing on my lips. What an irony. Demi really returned to our mother’s hometown? Is she feeling nostalgic? I bet Marcel didn’t approve of this. I bet he has no idea or he’ll freak out, for good reason. I throw my head back and laugh. This is even better than I could have hoped for.

It will be the perfect reunion; the bastard child, the loved child and a dead woman’s secret colliding in the small town. That should be fun.

I dial Naomi’s number and inform her of a sudden emergency that requires me to make a last-minute trip. To pacify her, I tell her Langley and I came to an agreement. She is happy to hear it.

After the call ends, I stare out at the city skyline and feel something darker stirring beneath my calm. Everything is about to end.