(Liam's POV - )
The silence in Liam's apartment wasn't peaceful; it was accusatory. The polished surfaces, the neatly arranged medical texts, the calming grey walls – they mocked the turmoil churning inside him. The image of the emerald on Danika's finger, Dante's smug satisfaction radiating through the loft door, played on a loop behind his eyes. Forever. The word felt like a physical suture pulled too tight, restricting his breath.
He'd tried routine. He'd reviewed Monday's complex hernia repair scans until the anatomical structures blurred. He'd cleaned his already spotless kitchen. He'd even attempted to read a medical journal, but the words swam meaninglessly before his eyes. All paths led back to the same crushing realization: he'd lost her. Not through some grand romantic rejection, but through his own damned hesitation, his underestimation of Dante's obsessive grip. The proposal wasn't just a ring; it was a padlock snapping shut on a future he'd foolishly, secretly, hoped might still hold a space for him. Dante hadn't just won; he'd annexed the territory permanently.
The carefully constructed facade of acceptance he'd worn for Danika began to fracture. A raw, jagged anger he rarely allowed himself to feel surged – anger at Dante's selfishness, at the chaos he dragged Danika into, and most of all, anger at himself for letting it happen. He needed to escape the echoing silence, the suffocating weight of his own thoughts
The carefully constructed dam of professional detachment cracked. A raw, unfamiliar anger surged – hot, acidic, and terrifyingly directionless. Anger at Dante's casual possession, at the sheer gall of using their grandmother's ring as a shackle. Anger at Danika's hopeful naivete. But mostly, corrosive and self-consuming, anger at his own monumental miscalculation. He hadn't just been cautious years ago; he'd been a coward. He'd watched Dante, the whirlwind, sweep in with his loud confidence and piercings, and he'd dismissed it as another fleeting obsession. He'd underestimated the terrifying depth of his brother's fixation, mistaking volatility for a lack of staying power. He'd overestimated Danika's immunity, her practicality. He'd waited, focused on building his own ordered world, assuming time was on his side. Now, time had slammed the door in his face, and the prize was irrevocably Dante's.
He needed noise. He needed chaos to drown out the chaos in his head. He needed to not be Dr. Liam Vega for a few hours.
He found himself outside "Neon Pulse" without consciously deciding to go there. The bass thrummed through the pavement, a physical pulse against his ribs. Inside, the assault was total: strobing lights cut jagged patterns in the thick air, heavy with sweat, cheap perfume, and spilled alcohol. The music was a wall of synthetic sound, obliterating thought. Perfect.
He shoved his way to the bar, ordering a double bourbon. He didn't sip; he threw it back, welcoming the fiery trail down his throat, the immediate, fuzzy warmth that started to blur the sharp edges of his pain. He ordered another. And another. The world softened, lost its definition. Faces swam past, meaningless. The thumping bass became a narcotic rhythm.
"Hey. You look like you're trying to outdrink the DJ." A woman's voice, pitched loud to be heard, close to his ear.
He turned. Dark hair, falling over one eye. A playful smirk. Early thirties, maybe. Confident. Her cobalt blue dress shimmered under the lights. For a heart-stopping, treacherous second, the angle, the dark hair… Danika? His breath hitched. A desperate, foolish hope flared.
"Maybe I am," he heard himself say, his voice sounding thick, distant. He offered a sliver of a smile he didn't feel.
She slid onto the stool beside him, her perfume – vanilla and something sharp – cutting through the club smells. "I'm Anya. And you are… intriguingly miserable." She signaled the bartender, ordering two more shots. "Misery loves company, right? And tequila."
Liam didn't protest. The tequila burned, hotter than the bourbon. Anya talked – about her boring finance job, her terrible ex, the absurdity of the club scene. Liam half-listened, nodding, letting the alcohol and her presence create a fragile bubble of distraction. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm as she laughed at her own story. Her touch was warm. Her eyes, when she looked at him, held a spark of interest.
In the disorienting strobe light, with the bourbon and tequila fogging his brain, the resemblance flickered again. The curve of her jaw, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear… He leaned in slightly, drawn by the ghost of what he'd lost, by the desperate need to feel something other than this crushing defeat.
"…and then he had the nerve to ask for his vintage concert tee back!" Anya laughed, her head tilting back.
The laugh. It was wrong. Too high, too brittle. Nothing like Danika's warm, genuine sound. It shattered the fragile illusion like glass.
Liam pulled back abruptly, the movement sharp. He stared at Anya, really seeing her now. The calculated sparkle in her eyes, the practiced pout, the shimmering dress designed for attention. She wasn't Dani. She was just… a reflection in a cracked mirror. A cheap imitation in a room full of noise.
Disgust, cold and sobering despite the alcohol, washed over him. What was he doing? Seeking solace in a stranger's shadow? Degrading himself and Danika's memory in this grimy temple of temporary oblivion?
"Sorry," he mumbled, pushing his unfinished shot away. "I have to go." He threw down far too much cash and stood, the room tilting dangerously.
"Whoa, hey!" Anya protested, grabbing his arm. "Running out already? The night's young!"
He shook her off, not roughly, but with finality. "I'm not who you're looking for," he said, his voice low but carrying an unexpected edge. He didn't look back as he pushed through the crowd, the pulsing music now a physical assault, the cloying perfume suffocating.
Outside, the cool night air felt like a benediction. He leaned against the damp brick wall, gulping deep breaths, the whiskey and tequila churning rebelliously in his stomach. The clarity was painful. The club wasn't an escape; it was a descent. And Dante… Dante was the root.
A reckless, burning resolve, sharper now that the alcohol haze was thinning, replaced the hollow disgust. He needed to see him. Not to plead, not to reason – those ships had sailed. He needed Dante to see. To see the fury, the sheer disbelief that he'd dared to make Mireya his permanent casualty.
The cab ride to Dante's loft was a tense blur. He used the old access code, the electronic beep sounding unnaturally loud in the sterile hallway. He didn't knock; he pounded. Once. Hard.
The door swung open. Dante stood silhouetted against the warm light from inside. Barefoot, wearing only low-slung black sweatpants, water droplets glistening on his tattooed torso from a recent shower. He held a glass of amber liquid. His expression shifted from surprise to a slow, infuriatingly smug grin as he recognized Liam.
"Well, well. Dr. Vega. To what do I owe this… dramatic entrance? Come to toast the engagement properly? Bourbon?" He raised his glass.
Liam pushed past him, the scent of expensive soap and bourbon hitting him. The loft was its usual controlled chaos – guitars on stands, a sleek laptop open on a mixing console, sleek but minimal furniture. "The ring," Liam stated, his voice dangerously calm. He turned to face Dante. "How did you get it?"
Dante's grin widened. He took a slow sip, savoring it. "Ah, the Tempest's stone. Persuasion, little brother. And maybe reminding Mom that keeping it locked away dishonors Isabella's spirit more than letting it live on the hand of a woman who embodies her fire." He leaned against the doorframe, radiating lazy triumph. "Danika wears it well, doesn't she? Like it was forged for her."
The possessiveness in his tone, the casual invocation of their formidable grandmother, was a match to Liam's tinder. "Persuasion?" Liam scoffed, taking a step closer. The space between them crackled. "Or emotional blackmail? That ring isn't a trophy, Dante. It's a responsibility. One you've never been fit for. You'll turn it into an anchor around her neck. You'll drag her into your next inevitable implosion, and that ring will just be a shiny marker on the wreckage."
Dante's smirk vanished. He pushed off the doorframe, his eyes narrowing, the relaxed posture coiling into something predatory. The difference in their physiques was stark – Liam's surgeon's build honed by discipline, Dante's leaner frame radiating the contained energy of a street fighter. "Fit?" Dante's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "You think you're fit? Mr. Perfect? Mr. Predictable? Hiding behind your scalpels and your sterile walls?" He took a step forward, forcing Liam back slightly. "You think I don't know? The way you watch her? That pathetic, hungry look you've always had? Like a dog waiting under the table." He jabbed a finger towards Liam's chest, stopping just short of contact. "She chose me. Get that through your thick, envious skull. She wants the fire, not the fucking flicker."
Liam saw red. The truth, weaponized by Dante, was unbearable. His hand shot up, not to strike, but to shove Dante's accusing finger away. "You don't love her! You consume her! You love the idea of owning something precious! Something I wanted!" The words tore out of him, raw and damning, shattering his last pretense.
The silence that followed was deafening. Dante's eyes widened slightly, then hardened into chips of obsidian. A slow, cold smile spread across his face, devoid of any warmth. "Ahhh," he breathed, the sound like gravel. "There it is. The real reason for the midnight visit. Not the ring. Not some noble concern for Danika." He took another step, crowding Liam. "Just good old-fashioned jealousy. Because the quiet brother finally got something you couldn't." He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Get out, Liam. Before you embarrass yourself further. Danika is mine. The ring is hers. The future is ours. You're just… background noise." He pointed to the door, his gaze unwavering, challenging.
Liam stood frozen, the heat of shame warring with the ice of fury. He'd exposed his deepest wound and given Dante the perfect weapon. He'd achieved nothing but his own humiliation. The fight drained out of him, leaving only a hollow, sickening ache. Without a word, he turned and walked out, the click of the door locking behind him sounding like a tomb sealing.
The drive home was a numb haze. Back in his apartment, the silence roared. He stripped off his jacket, the smell of the club and Dante's loft clinging to it. He felt contaminated. He stumbled to the bathroom, retching violently over the sink, purging the alcohol and the bitter taste of defeat.
Afterwards, leaning against the cool tiles, water dripping from his face, he stared at his reflection. Pale. Hollow-eyed. The controlled surgeon replaced by a man unraveled. Background noise. Dante's words echoed.
A dark, venomous thought bloomed in the emptiness: Destroy it.
It wasn't noble concern now; it was pure, desperate vengeance. Dante's world was papier-mâché. Scandals lurked in every shadow. That leaked demo track last year, blamed on a hacker… Liam knew Dante had drunkenly played it for a reporter. The Tokyo incident with the bassist's girlfriend… hushed up, but witnesses existed. A carefully worded anonymous email… a whispered conversation with a gossip columnist his mother played tennis with… It wouldn't take much. The engagement, the rockstar fairy tale – it would crumble under the weight of Dante's own carelessness. Danika would see. She'd be horrified. The ring… it could come back. A chance…
He pictured Dante's face splashed across tabloids, the smugness wiped away by public shame. He pictured Danika, tears in her eyes, the emerald discarded. A savage satisfaction flickered.
Then, another image: Danika at brunch, her thumb tracing the dark band, her voice quiet but firm. "It feels right. Solid, underneath the drama."The fragile hope in her eyes. The trust she'd placed, however misguided, in Dante's promise.
If he did this… if he detonated Dante's life… the explosion wouldn't just consume his brother. Shrapnel would tear into Danika. Public humiliation. Broken trust. The woman he loved would be eviscerated, collateral damage in his jealous rage. She would know. She'd trace it back. She'd look at him with betrayal far deeper than anything Dante could inflict. The friendship he'd clung to, the silent connection he treasured, would be annihilated.
The cost was unthinkable. The victory would be Pyrrhic, leaving only scorched earth and Danika's devastation.
The vengeful fantasy collapsed like rotten timber. Shame, hot and suffocating, flooded him, worse than the nausea. He wasn't Dante. He couldn't become the thing he despised – the manipulator, the destroyer. To protect Dani, truly protect her, meant protecting her choice, even if it led her into Dante's storm. It meant swallowing his own agony and being the steady light on the shore, not the hand that capsized her boat.
He slid down the bathroom wall, sitting on the cold tile floor, head resting against the cabinet. Exhaustion, profound and absolute, settled over him like a lead blanket. The anger was gone. The jealousy was a dull throb. Only the ache of loss and the heavy burden of choosing the harder path remained. He couldn't fight Dante. He couldn't sabotage them. All he could do was stand witness, wear the unbearable mask of acceptance, and pray that Dante's "forever" wouldn't become Danika's ruin. And if the storm came, he'd be there, not with a knife for Dante's back, but with a lifeline for Danika. The emerald still haunted him, but now it was a symbol of the battle he couldn't win, and the terrible, necessary grace of letting go. He closed his eyes, the silence of the apartment echoing the vast, hollow space where hope used to be.