The whiskey in my hand was a dark, liquid heat, but it did nothing to cut through the sudden, metallic chill of dread in my gut.
"Marcus, stay at my place tonight. My gift to you—I'm gutting your house. A complete new start for the New Year," I ground out, taking a large, inefficient gulp.
He leaned back, the expensive scent of his clothes—a mix of smoke and sandalwood—filling the air. "I know, bro. The renovators asked me for their marching orders." His casual tone was infuriating.
"Party poopers," I muttered, the curse barely a breath.
He just smiled, a flash of pure, infuriating calm. "I'll be there. Thank you," he confirmed, his hand landing on my shoulder—a weight, an anchor I simultaneously craved and resented.
I had to ask. "Is there another therapist you trust?" The name Juliet was a raw burn on my tongue.
His eyes, sharp and clear, widened in real shock. "Don't tell me, Ev. Not the night panics. Not again."
"She's globally recognized! How could her own mind be turning against her?" I slammed the bottle down, splashing a fresh measure into my glass. The clatter was too loud. I felt his assessment—a slow, meticulous sweep from my jawline down to my restless hands.
"Ev, I need you to listen," he finally said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming serious.
"Spit it out," I demanded.
"Mary, her doctor, was explicit. If this pattern continues, it can result in something physical—a seizure. It's an unsustainable drain on her system. But... she said the presence of a familiar scent is a strong deterrent."
A seizure. The word sliced through my control. My innocent sister, facing this hell alone.
"Define 'familiar scent,' Marcus," I clipped out, demanding the brutal truth.
He looked me straight in the eye, and the air thickened. "She needs to sleep next to you." He took a slow, deliberate sip of his Dalmore, watching my reaction.
"We are adults! How the hell am I supposed to ask her to share a bed?" I challenged, pacing the short distance in front of the bar.
"I delivered the message. The seduction—the persuasion—is your problem, not mine," he said, stone-faced. He was a ruthless bastard when he needed to be.
He then pulled his infamous move, grabbing my gaze with that unbreakable calm. "We will figure it out tomorrow. Don't frown, Ev. You'll ruin the night."
"Promise me you will help me think of a way," I pleaded, the sound raw and desperate. I felt exposed.
He scoffed softly. "Brother, I don't convince judges, but yes. I will burn this problem in my mind all night." He leaned in, his shadow enveloping me as he retrieved the bottle and filled my glass to the brim. "Forget about the weight for now. Let's just chill." He raised his Scotch, sealing the command.
This revelation about Juliet's health and the shocking solution creates a powerful new layer of personal drama that instantly overshadows the business plot.Marcus set his Dalmore down with a sharp clink that echoed in the velvet-lined silence of the bar. "Ev, the business is nothing. It's a spreadsheet, a line item. This… this is a foundation collapsing." His voice was low, cutting through my drunken haze more effectively than the whiskey.
"The foundation is fine. The foundation is what I'm paying a crew to rip out," I countered bitterly, referencing his house. "Just give me the details on the gutting. The sheer volume of material moving out—it's a distraction I need."
"Fine. They start Monday. Total tear-out. Your new glass walls arrive from Milan next week. Everything is on schedule, down to the last custom hinge," Marcus rattled off, his eyes never leaving mine. "But you know why the schedule is tight, don't you? You didn't just need a distraction, you needed a deadline. You hate an empty house."
I shoved my glass toward him for a refill. "I hate this feeling. This helplessness. Tell me about the panic, Marcus. The nightmares."
He sighed, the sandalwood scent suddenly heavy with regret. "They aren't just bad dreams, Ev. They are lucid terror. She knows she's dreaming, but she can't wake up. She relives the exact moment of the accident, sometimes for hours. Juliet—Dr. Evans—she treats people with trauma, but she can't escape her own mind's script."
"The pattern..." I whispered, the name of her therapist, Mary, suddenly sounding like a death sentence.
"The pattern accelerated. They started as once a month, then weekly. Now, they are happening every few nights," Marcus confirmed, his gaze heavy. "And yes, they've crossed the line. Mary confirmed it. The energy drain—that profound, physical exhaustion from fighting her own subconscious—it's too much. The seizures… they are not just a threat, Ev. They have started."
The word landed like a physical blow, stealing my breath. A complete white-out in my mind.
"When? When did you—when did she tell you they started?" I demanded, leaning over the bar, my voice barely a rasp.
"Last week. A brief, terrifying moment right after an episode. They aren't grand mal yet, thank God. More like absence seizures—her mind just blinks out, a total disconnect from reality for a few seconds. It's her system slamming the brakes, trying to prevent total collapse," he explained, his jaw tight. "That's why this familiar scent solution is the Hail Mary. It's not just about comfort, it's a primal, neurological anchor to keep her tethered to safety. Your presence, your unchanging scent, is the only consistent variable they found that correlates with a reduction in the episodes."
I stared into the dark liquid, seeing only her face, pale and strained. My brilliant sister, reduced to needing a security blanket I couldn't bear to offer.
"We have to figure out the logistics tonight," I concluded, the last of the whiskey burning a trail of resolve. "The construction starts Monday. That gives us tomorrow. I need her to sleep safely, Marcus. I need her to stop fighting the ghosts I can't even see."
Marcus nodded slowly, raising his Scotch glass again. "Done. Now, let's talk about the new stone for your hearth. It's the closest thing we have to a solvable problem."