Chapter 1

You know that feeling when a smell is so strong it’s like you can taste it? That’s what it was like in this little room behind the main church hall. The air was thick and heavy, tasting of a perfume so sweet it made my teeth ache. Roses. White roses. Thousands of them. They were everywhere in giant, overflowing vases, woven into garlands over the stone doorway, even scattered on the floor. It was like a flower shop had exploded in here.

The door creaked open and my mom, Eleanor, swept in. Her dress was a pale, icy blue, and she moved like she was already gliding down the aisle herself.

“Oh, honey, don’t slouch,” she said, her voice a soft but firm command. She came over and started fussing with the lace on my shoulders. “There. Perfect.” She took a deep, satisfied breath. “Aren’t the roses just divine? I had them flown in from Ecuador. Only the best for my girl on her big day.”

My girl. The way she said it sounded like she was talking about a show pony she’d just groomed for a competition. I just nodded.

“They’re ... a lot, Mom.”

“It’s a statement,” she corrected, smiling a tight, perfect smile. “It says elegance. It says class.”

The door opened again, and my dad stuck his head in. He looked a little lost in his tuxedo. He’s a man who’s more comfortable in a polo shirt on a golf course, but today he was playing the part.

“Everything okay in here?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room, landing on me. He gave a low whistle. “Well, Hannah. You look ... expensive.”

He meant it as a compliment. I knew he did. It was his way of saying I looked beautiful. But all I heard was the price tag.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, trying to make it sound cheerful.

This was supposed to be the day girls dream about. The princess moment. The big white dress, the church, the guy waiting for you at the altar. But I didn’t feel like a princess. I felt like an investment. I was the main event at the “Richard and Eleanor Thompson Show,” all dressed up in ribbons I didn’t pick, about to be paraded out for a crowd of people. And let’s be honest, half of them were just here to see how much money was spent, and the other half were just counting the minutes until the open bar.

“Richard! Hannah! It’s time!” Mom’s voice called through the heavy oak door.

My dad gave me a weak smile and held out his arm. “Well,” he said, his voice quiet. “Here we go.”

I took a final breath, the sickly-sweet smell of a thousand dying roses filling my lungs. It didn’t smell like a beginning. It smelled like an ending.

I caught my reflection in the shiny brass of the preacher’s stand and for a second, I didn’t recognize myself. The woman staring back was a stranger, someone carved out of ivory and expensive lace. My hair, this waterfall of honey-blonde waves that a stylist spent three hours on, charging more per hour than I make in a whole day, was pinned up with these tiny, delicate pearls. My face was a lie. A beautiful lie, sure, but a lie. The makeup artist had been a magician, hiding the fact that I hadn’t slept and that a ball of anxiety had been sitting in my stomach for weeks.

And the dress ... God, the dress. It cost more than a car. It pulled my waist in so tight I could barely breathe and pushed my chest up in a way that was supposed to be breathtaking. I guess I was beautiful. A perfect little porcelain doll. And just as empty on the inside.

My eyes, which are deep blue and probably the only thing about myself I’ve ever really liked, started scanning the crowd. I glanced past my aunts and uncles, all of them with these fake, plastered-on smiles. Then past my dad’s business partners, their eyes flicking around, probably adding up the cost of the whole thing. I saw Joe’s family from Ohio big, loud, and genuinely happy to be here. And then, my eyes landed on them.

Ethan and Nash. My younger brothers. The golden twins.

They were in the second row, sitting on either side of their dates, one was a super tall model from Brazil, the other a Swedish girl with cheekbones so sharp you could cut glass on them. My brothers looked like they belonged right there with them. They’re identical, but they’re not, you know? They both got Dad’s strong jaw and Mom’s thick, dark hair, the complete opposite of my blonde. They’re both like, six-foot, all broad shoulders and custom-made Tom Ford suits that probably cost a fortune. They just radiate this confidence that’s always felt like a personal insult to me.

Ethan’s the older one, by seven minutes. He’s always been the intense one. He looks at the world like he’s taking it apart piece by piece to see how it works. His hair’s a little shorter, more serious. He’s the brains of their operation, the quiet genius in the background. Nash ... well, Nash is the charmer. He smiles and the whole world just seems to light up. His hair’s a little longer, always falling in his eyes in that way that makes girls want to reach out and fix it. He’s the face of their company, the guy who can talk anyone into anything.

But today ... something was off. That easy, almost annoying confidence they always have? It was gone. They weren’t smiling. Their shoulders were slumped, just a little, but I saw it. And when their eyes met mine for just a split second before the organ started playing, they were just ... sad. Like a deep, gut-punch kind of sad.

And for the first time in my entire life, seeing them miserable didn’t give me that ugly little thrill of satisfaction.

I have to admit, for as long as I can remember, their pain was my secret pleasure. It sounds awful, I know. But if they scraped a knee, or failed a test, or got their hearts broken by some girl, a nasty little part of me felt ... better. It was the only thing that made things feel fair in a world where they got everything. They were the brilliant, athletic, self-made sons. And I was ... just the daughter. The one who stayed home, took a fake job at Dad’s company, and was now marrying a “nice, suitable boy” who surprise, surprise also worked for Dad.

I hated them for it. I hated them for building a massive tech company out of their dorm room, for refusing every penny Dad tried to give them. I hated that they were so damn independent. They’d be jetting off to Monaco or Tokyo, and I’d be planning a quarterly board meeting in upstate New York. I hated their supermodel girlfriends and their easy laughs and the fact that they were so close.

But the thing I hated most? No matter how cold I was, no matter how much I pushed them away, they never stopped trying. A birthday card, always on time. A bottle of my favorite champagne showing up on my doorstep after I’d had a bad week. A text from Nash: “Just checkin in, Han.” He’s the only one who calls me that. An email from Ethan with a link to an article about some rare book I mentioned I liked five years ago: “Saw this and thought of you.”

Every time they did that, it was like throwing another log on the fire of my anger. It didn’t feel like love. It felt like pity. Poor Hannah, I’d think, still stuck in the nest. Let’s throw the poor girl a bone.

So, when my mother told me the wedding was off unless Ethan and Nash were on the guest list, I pretty much lost it. Her face was like a polite steel mask, no emotion at all. She informed me they had to be there, front and center. I felt a flash of anger so hot and so pure it almost blinded me.

“It’s my wedding, Mom!” I screamed. My voice sounded childish and ugly in her perfect, cream-colored living room.

She didn’t even look up from the fancy invitations she was addressing. “And it’s your father’s money paying for it,” she said, her voice calm and quiet. That shut me up right away. “They are your brothers, Hannah. This family will present a united front. We are not discussing this again.”

So here they were. Our united front. A perfect, beautiful, miserable lie.

Up at the altar, the priest was going on and on about love, honor, and cherish. I squeezed Joe’s hand, and he squeezed back. His palm was warm and a little sweaty. He glanced over at me, his honest, brown eyes just filled with love. Joe’s a good man. He’s kind, he’s stable, and he loves me no matter what. He was supposed to be my safe place, the solid ground I could stand on when my family felt like a storm. He was everything a woman is told she should want.

So why did his touch suddenly feel ... like nothing? Why did his predictable, steady goodness feel less like a comfort and more like a cage closing around me?

My eyes drifted back to my brothers. I could see them more clearly now. There was a muscle jumping in Ethan’s jaw, over and over again. Nash was staring down at his own lap, his knuckles completely white from clenching his fists. That look in their eyes wasn’t just sadness. It was real, actual pain. And seeing it now, without my usual jealousy blocking the view, it didn’t make me feel good. It made my stomach clench. A weird, unfamiliar feeling, guilt, maybe? started to curdle in my gut, mixing with the glass of champagne I’d chugged before walking down the aisle.

What is wrong with you, Hannah? I yelled at myself inside my own head. Get it together. This is your day. The one day that’s supposed to be about you. Stop thinking about them.

I forced my lips into a smile. I turned to Joe. And when it was my turn, I recited my vows, but the words felt like ash in my mouth. They didn’t mean anything at all.

FLASH BACK -

I remember my sixteenth birthday like it was yesterday.

The twins were fourteen that year. It was the year they both shot up like weeds, suddenly taller than me. Their voices were all over the place, cracking and squeaking, and their bodies were just a tangle of sharp elbows and awkward energy. But the real change was how things shifted with them and my dad.

See, Dad’s an engineer. He loves logic, results, things he can measure. He never really knew what to do with me, his daughter who loved poetry and old paintings, who almost failed calculus, and thought his business meetings were soul-crushing.

But the boys ... the boys he got.

For my sixteenth birthday, I only wanted one thing: a first-edition copy of The Bell Jar. I’d found it in this dusty little bookshop in the city. The cover was worn out, and the pages smelled like old paper and secrets. It was expensive, but not, you know, car expensive. I circled it in the shop’s catalog, left it on the kitchen counter, and talked about it all the time.

The morning of my birthday, I came downstairs and our living room looked like a department store. There was a brand-new convertible in the driveway with a stupid, giant red bow on it. It felt less like a gift and more like a business deal. There were piles of designer clothes and expensive jewelry. But no book.

“Happy birthday, princess,” Dad said, booming, and kissed my cheek. Mom started fussing with my hair.

The twins came in late, covered in grease. For months, they’d been living in the garage, taking apart this old lawnmower engine Dad was about to junk.

“Sorry we’re late,” Nash said, grinning, a black smudge on his nose.

“We had a breakthrough,” Ethan added. His eyes were lit up with this fire I’d never seen in him before.

They grabbed Dad and dragged him out to the garage. I followed them, this feeling of dread tying a knot in my stomach. On the workbench, the old lawnmower engine was ... something totally new. They had rebuilt it, rewired it, and hooked it up to a small generator. Nash gave this dramatic little bow, then pulled the starter cord. The engine sputtered, coughed twice, and then roared to life. A string of colored Christmas lights they’d connected to it flickered and then just blazed, lighting up the whole grimy garage.

I had never, ever seen my father look that proud. His eyes, which were usually so critical, were just shining. He threw his arms around both of them in this huge, tight bear hug he’d never once given me.

“My boys,” he said, and his voice was thick with emotion. “My brilliant boys. You figured it out. You built a goddamn generator.”

They just stood there, soaking up his praise, completely forgetting that it was my birthday. Forgetting I was even there. I felt invisible.

I slipped back into the house without them noticing. My eyes were burning with tears. I walked right past the shiny new car, past the piles of expensive, meaningless junk, and went up to my room. I just lay on my bed and cried until my throat was sore.

Later that night, there was a soft knock on my door. It was Ethan and Nash. They were holding this small, kind of clumsily wrapped gift.

“We’re so sorry, Han,” Nash said. All his earlier excitement was gone, and he just looked ashamed. “We got caught up. We’re assholes.”

“We didn’t forget,” Ethan said, his voice quiet, as he pushed the gift into my hands.

I unwrapped it. It was the book. The Bell Jar. They had pooled their allowances for months to buy it for me. It was the one perfect thing in a day full of hollow, expensive crap.

But I was sixteen, and my heart felt like an open wound. I couldn’t see their kindness. All I could see was their victory in the garage and the look of adoration on my father’s face. All I felt was the sting of being an afterthought.

“I don’t want it,” I said. My voice was cold and flat. I shoved the book back at them. “I don’t want anything from you.”

The hurt on their faces was so real it should have broken my heart. But it didn’t. At that moment, their pain made my own pain feel a little better. It was the first time I realized I had the power to hurt them, and a dark, ugly part of me liked it. It felt like I was finally evening the score. That was the day the huge gap between us opened up. And I’ve spent every year since then just piling more rocks and dirt into it, making sure it was too wide for any of us to ever get across.

The reception is mostly a blur. Champagne, fake smiles, and music so loud you couldn’t even think straight. We were at Oheka Castle, and the ballroom was ridiculous dripping with crystals and gold leaf, a palace built for people who weren’t us. It felt like a million miles away from that greasy garage and the lawnmower engine.

My dad, his face flushed with pride and expensive scotch, got up to give his speech. He was supposed to be toasting the bride and groom, but it sounded more like a quarterly earnings report. I swear, he spent ninety percent of the time talking about his company’s profits. The other ten percent was a quick tribute to his “beautiful daughter and her fine new husband, Joe,” who he actually called “a real asset to the team.” An asset. Like a new filing cabinet.

But then, his voice really started to boom. He spent the next five minutes gushing about Ethan and Nash and some rival tech firm they’d just bought. The pride in his voice was so thick, so powerful, it felt like a physical punch to my gut.

“To my boys!” he finally yelled, raising his glass high. “Building their own legacy! A father couldn’t be prouder.”

The whole room erupted in applause. I just sat there, frozen, with this plastic smile glued to my face. Under the table, my fingernails were digging so hard into Joe’s thigh I was probably drawing blood. He just patted my hand, completely clueless.

“Your dad’s great,” he whispered in my ear, his breath warm. “So proud of the whole family.”

I wanted to scream. I swear to God, I wanted to stand up, flip our table with its five-thousand-dollar flower arrangement, and just watch the whole damn thing crash and burn.

But I didn’t. Instead, I took a deep, shaky breath and drained my champagne glass in one go. My throat burned. I caught a waiter’s eye and pointed to my empty glass. He nodded and brought another. I drank that one, too. And another after that.

Slowly, the alcohol started to work its magic. It began to sand down the sharp edges of my anger, to loosen the tight, heavy coil of resentment in my chest. The faces of the guests started to blur together. The pointless chatter just became a background hum. The flashing lights on the dance floor, which had felt like an attack on my senses a minute ago, now seemed kind of hazy and inviting.

Joe pulled me onto the dance floor for our first dance. It was some sappy Ed Sheeran song, and for those three minutes, everything almost felt okay. I rested my head on his chest and breathed him in. He smelled clean, familiar. He’s my safe place, I told myself. He’s solid ground. This is what’s real. This is what matters.

But as the night went on and the drinks kept coming, that reality started to get a little warped. The DJ switched from slow dances to house music, and the bass started thumping so hard I could feel it vibrating up through the soles of my stupidly expensive shoes. People were getting loose. I saw my dad, his tie gone, doing some awkward shuffle with one of my aunts. My mom was actually laughing, a real laugh, while she danced with Joe’s dad.

Then came the group dance. One of those stupid, choreographed line dances everyone somehow knows the moves to. Before I knew it, I was dragged into the middle of it, laughing. My head was light and fuzzy from champagne and the tequila shots Joe’s groomsmen kept handing me. The whole point of the dance was to keep switching partners, a big, sweaty, laughing mess of people. I spun away from Joe’s cousin and slammed right into a solid wall of muscle.

I looked up. It was Nash.

His hands landed on my waist to steady me. They were firm, sure. The music was pounding in my ears. For a split second, my body froze. All my old instincts screamed at me: Pull away. Turn your back. Walk away.

But I was drunk. And I was tired. So, so tired of hating them all the time.

He grinned that killer smile of his. “You’re supposed to put your hands on my shoulders, you know.”

My body moved before my brain could catch up. My hands just ... landed on the hard planes of his shoulders. The suit fabric was smooth and cool, but I could feel the heat and coiled strength of his body underneath. It was ... surprising. I’d never touched either of them like this, not since we were kids wrestling on the living room rug.

“There you go,” he said, his voice a low rumble over the music. He swung me around, moving like he owned the dance floor. He didn’t dance like Dad or Joe, who both moved like they were doing a chore. Nash moved with this easy, natural grace. I was laughing, trying to keep up, nearly tripping over my own feet. He just tightened his grip on my waist, holding me steady. His cologne was spicy and woodsy, and it mixed with the roses and champagne in the air. The smell was dizzying.

The song changed, the partner, swapping part was over, but we were still in the middle of the dance floor. And then, before I could even think about pulling away, another hand landed on my back. I turned my head. It was Ethan.

He was on my other side, his face impossible to read. Nash didn’t let go. For a weird, timeless second, I was just standing there, sandwiched between them. My two giant brothers. I felt tiny. And strangely ... safe.

“Mind if I cut in?” Ethan asked. He was talking to Nash, but his eyes were locked on me.

Nash just laughed. “Sharing is caring, brother.” He didn’t move an inch.

The DJ, catching the vibe of the party, switched to a slower, sexier song with a heavy, grinding beat. All around us, people were swaying, lost in the music. And there I was, caught between the two men I’d spent my whole life hating.

Ethan’s hand slid from my back to my waist, his hand a mirror image of Nash’s. My breath caught in my throat. This was insane. I was at my own wedding, my new husband was probably off getting a drink, and I was being held by my brothers. But the tequila had washed away all the rules, all the anger. All that was left was this moment.