They called it a Black Wednesday. Not just for the weather or the gloom smeared across the sky, but because the invitation card demanded it. Every guest was instructed to wear black, a colour deep enough to match the sorrow in their eyes and the heaviness in their voices. Grief wasn't optional, It was part of the dress code.
From where I stood, tucked into the last row like an afterthought, everything seemed to move as it should. Silent weeping, polished shoes sinking slightly into the grass, a slow shuffle of heels as people rose and fell back into their seats like waves.
And then there was my family.
Grandad is like ancient nobility, powerful and stoic. Eighty-two and still sharp in his tailored coat, looking like he'd been carved straight out of a faded painting. His cane, silver-tipped, clinked against the ground as he moved-head high, proud, face unreadable behind thick sun shades and skin that had folded gently with time.
Then came my half-brothers. Devan, the eldest of the three. Hair slicked back like a politician's. Surface-perfect, all appearances, but empty of empathy—his eyes when they flickered towards me held nothing but disinterest. He represents the kind of authority that judges but never understands.
Mart arrived next, just as equally distant but gaudier. Always overdressed, always smug, cares about his appearance, about being noticed like he was attending a red carpet instead of a funeral. His presence is a self-serving spectacle, showing detachment through vanity.
And then there's Rollins, the middle son. He was the one who really paused the world. He was my mistake and my miracle.
He stepped out of the car with quiet assurance, not needing to flaunt anything. His suit, though equally expensive, didn't beg for attention. It fit him like a second skin. His dark hair fell just above his brow in soft, disheveled waves, the kind you wanted to brush back but wouldn't dare touch. His lips were full, parted slightly like he was always just about to speak some truth you weren't ready to hear. But it was his eyes, his gray, wild, and dreamy eyes that pulled the breath from my lungs.
He doesn't just look at me—he sees me, not as a myth or weapon, but a woman.
Before he sat, before he acknowledged anyone else, he turned. Found me at the back. And then smiled.
Not the kind of smile you throw at strangers or relatives. This one was small, knowing, private. The kind that curled in the corner of his mouth like it had once lived on my skin. I didn't smile back, not fully. Just pressed a hand to my stomach and let the motion speak for me.
The child inside me stirred, his child. Two months old, and already full of questions I had no answers for. Questions like why does it kick in just two months?
The pastor's voice broke through the silence, low and solemn, delivering a sermon I can't recall word for word. Something about ashes, grace, and crossing over. People listened, heads bowed, but I wasn't there with them. My mind kept wandering to the impossible things-like how I predicted my mother would live long enough to remarry a man named Mark Ocean, someone she'd never even met yet. I told her she'd be happy again, that she'd see me graduate, that her life still had chapters left to write.
I never saw her death coming.
I saw everything else. Every war. Every twist of fate. Every betrayal and miracle and blooming romance. But not this. Not her cold hand, not her sealed eyes, not her coffin being lowered while strangers threw roses into the grave like it was theatre.
Why didn't I see it?
I moved slowly toward the casket, rose trembling in my hand. The baby kicked again-sharp, urgent, like a knock on a locked door. I braced myself for the usual flash, for the vision that always came: mother screaming in agony, her bone snapping like a twig, blood streaming down from every hole in her body.
But this time, there was nothing. No flash. No scream. Just a kiss of the wind.
I threw my rose into the grave, and as it hit the coffin, the sky cracked open.
Thunder rolled like an angry drum. Wind howled through the cemetery, lifting skirts and coats and sending the canopy thrashing. Mourners screamed as they clutched hats and chased umbrellas. The ceremony rushed on, but the rain was impatient. It came down hard-uninvited and merciless.
And still, I didn't move.
Everyone else ran. But I stayed. Not bravery, but because I couldn't leave her. The guilt glued me to the spot, heavy and quiet. The guilt that I had once envisioned her future with another man... and now she had no future at all. The guilt that I had killed my father the minute I was conceived—as if my very existence is a death sentence. And the deeper guilt-that maybe, somehow, I had killed her too.
I held my belly with both hands. As if that would protect the child. Whatever I carried inside me... it mattered. It was precious. If it could live, then maybe it could change the way death worked.
"Jessica!" Rollins voice broke through the storm, calling me back to earth.
I turned.
Rollins stood, soaked to the bone. His coat whipped around him, rain streaking down his face like tears he'd never cry. He stepped carefully toward me, boots sliding on wet grass.
"Say your goodbye!" he shouted again, louder this time.
But I wasn't ready to let go.
Not yet. Because letting go meant accepting it happened—and if it happened without warning, then nothing in my world is safe anymore.
After the funeral, Rollins offered me a ride to the country house. We said nothing during the long ride, and for a good reason, it took nearly fifty minutes just to get from the main gate to the actual front door.
Fifty minutes.
That's how huge the estate was, it wasn't just big, it was the kind of big that made you question if it had been built for people or for something else entirely.
Insane, right?
But that's my grandfather. The man's wealth was old, bottomless, and global. Even after walking this earth for so long, I still found it hard to believe he once controlled several tech companies across Japan and Korea during his prime. Back when the world was still fascinated with dial tones and floppy disks, he was already rewriting code for empires.
And me? I was nothing more than the only son of a fisherman—lazy, bitter, and drunk more often than not. He stumbled upon my powers like a man finds a coin on the street, then milked them in secret, trading silence for survival.
But now, here I am. Granddaughter of a man who never needed magic to thrive—though if the situation ever called for it, I knew he'd expect me to use them.
I knew better not to tell anyone what I can do, who and what I really was. I risked it before, I can't risk it again. Not with Rollins. I have to be normal for him, I owe him that.
"We're here," the driver said, voice clipped, as the car rolled to a smooth halt in front of a massive marble fountain that never stopped running.
Rollins didn't take off his sunglasses. He just turned to me with his usual deadpan and said, "Get out."
"Yes, sir," the driver muttered before quietly leaving us.
I exhaled slowly, eyes lingering on the stone lions spitting water into the basin. This wasn't my first time here. Wasn't even my second. But each visit carried a shift, a new tension, something I never asked for, something that always made it feel like I was walking into a different chapter of someone else's story.
Rollins reached across and took my hand."Are you ready?"
"No," I said quietly. "I don't think I'll ever be."
"You'll do great, Jessica. I promise."
I turned to him. "It's not my performance I'm worried about. It's him, the way he looks at me... Like he's just waiting for the day I become a problem, so he can erase me."
Rollins sighed and slid his shades off, revealing eyes that carried more concern than judgment, just enough to remind me that he could be human when he tried.
"My brother is an arrogant bastard, yes. He can be a pain in the ass sometimes, and that's exactly why you need to stay calm, no matter what venom he spits. That's the only way you'll win."
I gave him a tired smile, squeezed his hand gently. "You know you're also a pain in the ass, right?"
He laughed, low and warm. "God, you don't know when to quit."
I laughed too. "No—"
His lips found mine before I could finish. Then he kissed me. It wasn't urgent, just a slow press of the lips. When he pulled back, his gaze dropped to my belly. He rested a hand there, fingers light and gentle.
"I love you, Jessica."
"I know," I said. I know he wanted me to say it back, but I just couldn't risk it. The few men I've been with never made it to day three after I said those words to them. And Rollins was too precious. So all I did was smile and offered proof that I loved him too. "That's why I'm carrying your children."
He kissed the top of my hand this time, slower. "I'll be right there the whole time. No matter what happens."
I nodded.
His words steadied me, but they didn't quiet the storm in my chest. I was still scared of Devan. When I swore I'd live a normal life without divine interference, I didn't know how suffocating being normal could feel, especially when a life is growing inside you, knowing that any little mistake would harm it.
I inhaled deep, then stepped out of the car. Another breath as I pushed open the grand door. And there they were—faces. Familiar, young, mortal faces. People whose births I predicted and whose deaths would eventually find them like soft, cruel inevitabilities.
I was older than every soul in that room, by centuries. And yet, I instinctively reached for Rollins' hand. Because for the first time in a long time, I wasn't sure which part of me they'd see—the god, or the girl pretending she was never anything more.
When I walked in, they all stopped.
And when I say all, I mean every last one of them—Grandad with his gold white cane and sad, crusty scowl.
Aunt Vidia who only crawls into the state when someone dies,
Uncle Silas, the rarely seen family lawyer with more ties than bloodlines.
And Mart, his favourite nephew, who kisses ass better than he kisses women.
They all paused mid-sentence, mid-sip, mid-whatever. Everyone except Devan. Devan never pauses, not for God, not for decency and definitely not for me.
He stood by the window, pouring himself a glass of wine, holding something brown that definitely wasn't legal tobacco, in between his lips.
His voice cut through the room like a knife."I don't know why you people are stressing over this," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that could've choked God. "It's clearly me. I'm the next CEO of the Pearce Foundation. I've got the age, the experience, the brains. What else do I need?"
Mart, who never misses a cue, raised his hand like a schoolboy. "The signature?"He then turned to Uncle Silas, pointing to the documents in his hands."Could you help me with That, uncle?"
"Sure," Silas murmured, slipping the papers across.
"Thanks," Mart muttered before sinking back into the sofa."So, It's written here," he began, eyes skimming the legalese, "that a signature from the sole heir is required if she chooses to pass the Foundation down to one of Rivera's children."
And that, right there, was the moment Devan noticed me. Or maybe he already had, maybe he just didn't think I was worth acknowledging until now.
His head turned, all heads turned to me. And I swallowed.
"Oh, I know the rules," Devan said, each word dipped in venom as he started walking toward me.
I didn't flinch, but my hands twitched on my sides. I almost reached for my belly. Almost.
To shield it, but I didn't. I couldn't let him see what he might decide to target. If Devan even guessed I was pregnant with his younger brother's child, my ribs might never recover.
He stopped in front of me, took another drag of his tobacco, and blew the smoke right into my face. I coughed, not because I had to—I've gotten used to worse—but because fragile girls are expected to cough.
And Rollins—sweet, dangerous Rollins—was suddenly beside me. His fists were already clenched, he was tasty, ready, waiting. If Devan so much as raised a finger, I didn't know what he would do. Maybe kill him. Maybe do it slowly. That would've made my life much easier.
But either way, he was beside me.
"So... Half-sister," Devan drawled on the word half, eyes never leaving mine. "What's your price? A Mercedes? A vacation home? Want me to suck you off for the signature?"
He stepped closer.
"Because let's be real here—we both know you never went to business school. Hell, I doubt you even went to any real school. So tell me, what exactly qualifies you to run anything except your mouth?"
My new favourite word, courtesy of the 21st century, is prick. What a prick he was. I was this close to leaning in and whispering, "My name is Jessica," just to watch him implode from the inside out like I did with the other assholes. But Rollins, he was beside him. Grandad was within earshot. Maria stood by the door, held captive by the unfolding family drama.
If I had said it, the pain wouldn't just hit Devan.
So instead, I turned away, heading for my room upstairs. My clothes were still slightly damp from the rain, so I needed to change, I needed to lay down, to cry. It had only been three hours since they put Mom in the ground, but somehow it still felt like she'd just left.
But Devan doesn't know what grief is, he only understands control.
Five steps.
Five steps up was all I took before I heard gasps behind me and then the sudden burst of wine glass shattering against the wall in front of me. The sound rang like a gunshot, louder than Maria's scream.
"Devan."
Rollins' voice turned to steel. low. Controlled. It was the kind of tone that comes right before violence.
I stared at the shards of glass now littering the stairs, red wine bleeding downwards like blood. He had thrown it at me. At me and it would've hit me if I'd taken the stairs any faster.
When I turned back, he was already pointing at me with the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers.
And so were his eyes.
"Do no, walk out on me while I'm talking to you," he said softly but deadly. "Especially, when I'm talking."
I sighed softly then walked back to him, not fast, not slow. I stopped an inch from him—Let my breath touch his skin, let him feel every heartbeat of mine and know that I wasn't moved by him, that I had to pretend to be scared.
"I'm here now," I said. "Talk."
I didn't break eye contact, and he didn't blink either.
And I swear—behind that fury, behind the tension, behind everything—Rollins smiled. And that was all I needed to confirm that I had won.
"What's my mother's middle name?" I asked, not shouting, just letting it fall like something final. "What illness did she have? Do you even know what it was like out there, the life we had away from this house? She's gone, Devan. She didn't even get a proper burial. And all you care about is the damn company."
He didn't flinch. Just raised a finger to my face and drew another drag from his tobacco, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling between us like it always did—like a ritual, a warning.
"If you'd just taken the offer," he said coolly, "we wouldn't be here now—"
"Her funeral was just today. Today. There's still tomorrow, next week, a future. But no, not with you. With you, it's always business first. You know, I was going to walk away from all of it eventually. I didn't want it. She didn't either. Not because she wasn't capable—but because this—" I waved my hand between us, "—this is what it cost. She couldn't bear losing family just to keep what she already earned. She died carrying that weight, and she hasn't even found rest yet."
He scoffed. "Give me a break. Whether she's resting or not doesn't change the facts. She. Is. Dead."
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, tears and fury both burning. "And that's exactly why I won't sign the papers. She didn't fight for what belonged to her—but I will. And I don't care who gets burned along the way."
Devan laughed, a short puff of smoke trailing after. "You? With what experience? No business degree, no credibility. If you ever do make it to that seat, the company will crash in two months. You're too young, too emotional... You're sweating through your eyes and probably your underwear too. What happens when things go south in the boardroom?"
I almost laughed. He thought I wanted the money. That I needed his approval. That I was here to play politics.
I took a step closer. "That's why I'm going to college. I'm going to get that degree."
He hummed, rubbing his chin like he was deciding how best to cut me down. "So we sponsor you, and then what? You come back empty-handed? Waste of time. Waste of resources."
That was when I smiled, really smiled. "Who said you'll be sponsoring me?"
I crossed the room, took the file from Mart's hands, and handed it to Grandpa. Because I knew that if mom were here, she'd want me to give it to him for safe keeping. And grandpa didn't hesitate, he just took it with a soft, steady warmth, like he'd been waiting, looking at me the way someone does when they believe in you, even before you believe in yourself.
I turned back to Devan. "I raised my mother without a dime from this house. I did it then, and I'll do it again. I'll earn my first-class degree, come back, and take what's mine. The day I return, no one, especially not you, will question my right to it again."
I turned and walked away. Devan's voice called out from behind me as I climbed the stairs.
"And how do you plan on affording college when you can't even buy yourself new underwear?"
I paused, looked down at him from the steps. "Watch me, Devan... watch me."
I looked like I had it all figured out. But don't be deceived. Forty minutes later, and I was already face down, screaming into my pillow like that would fix anything. I prayed Devan couldn't hear me from the other wing of the house. The walls were thick—hopefully thick enough.
What the hell was I thinking?
There was no way I could survive college without a few tricks up my sleeve. My entire life, I'd used a spark or two to open locked doors, soften hardened hearts, cheat systems built to swallow girls like me whole. Now what? I'm supposed to use my brain? Who even does that? !
I groaned louder, arms clutching the pillow tighter, until I heard the knob twist and I shot upright like I hadn't just been falling apart. I expected it to be Grandpa, coming to bless my idiocy. Or Maria, checking if I was still breathing.
But it was Rollins.
Which meant I was already dead.
He didn't knock. He just walked in, arms folded like a lecture was already halfway through forming in his head.
"Were you in some kind of spell back there? Tell me why you'd challenge Devan and think he wouldn't strike back."
I could hear the irritation in his voice—and worse, the worry hiding beneath it.
Shit.
I started mentally packing my bags, Imagined vanishing to another timeline, or maybe a quick spell to harden my skin. Something strong enough to shield me... or at least my baby.
I sat up, lips curled into a sulk. "I don't know why I did it," I mumbled, voice thin, the weight of tears pressing behind my eyes for no sensible reason. "I guess I got carried away when I saw you smile."
He looked genuinely surprised. "Me?"
I nodded.
He sank down beside me,"I only smiled because—hell, I've never seen you stand up to him like that before. Did you see the look on everyone's faces? You shook the ground when you came down those stairs."
A smile bloomed across my lips like sunrise, but only briefly before the words sank in.
"Wait… the ground shook? You mean literally or—?"
He shrugged, not answering the question directly. "Does it matter? What matters," he went on,"is that you need to go downstairs, cross into the west wing, and hand in your signature."
I narrowed my eyes to have a better look at him. "And what spell are you under? You can't possibly be serious, not after what he said about my mom."
He sighed before dropping onto the bed beside me, voice cooling. "Jessica, baby… with all due respect…"
Yup, right before the blow.
"I don't care about the dead. I don't care about this ridiculous feud you're starting with Devan. I just want you to keep our baby and your own damn life out of it."
Silence...
His chest rose, then fell. He was scared, not of me—but for me, like he thought I'd shatter if he wasn't there.
If only he knew the truth.
If only he understood what I really was. What Devan was actually facing. He should be scared... but not for me.
I met his eyes and said, "No."
His eyes flinched. "No?"
"I know you're scared. You think Devan's going to come after me. You think I don't know what I've started. But I had to do it."
He stared. Then he looked away. "I'm not just scared of Devan."
I tilted my head."What then?"
He stood up slowly, "College," he said after a pause. "Girls with bad influence. Wild parties. Idiots in heat. Scary initiation-You waking up and realizing this—us—is a mistake. Then moving on."
He rested his forehead against the wall like he couldn't look at me while saying it.
"Rollins…"
He exhaled."You don't know what happens out there. Did you even think this through?"
I looked down at my own hands, fists clenched in my lap. "No, I didn't. But I'd rather try than stay here and be insulted again. And I'm not leaving you, Rollins. I can't."
He turned around, face softened as he joined me on the bed again. "How are you so sure?"
I smiled faintly, "Because I love y—" I stopped, eyes wide. "Yoghurt."
His brow arched. "Yoghurt?"
I nodded solemnly. "Mm-hmm. And I'll never stop loving yoghurt. No matter what."
I can't believe I almost killed him with those words.
"Well... How much do you love yoghurt?"
I looked at him. "Oh my god, Rollins, are we having a different conversation? You're so gross."
He laughed, short and quiet. But it was enough. He leaned in again, smile crooked, the tension between us melting like ice left too long in sunlight.
I remember thinking back then that I meant every promise I made to him.
That I'd always love him.
But that was three years ago.
And if someone had told me that one day I'd struggle to keep that promise, I would've called them a liar. I was too in love to imagine the future without him.
But the thing about the future is... it doesn't ask for permission.
It just comes.