Tristan’s POV
I have always been second best. The second twin. Second to walk. Second to talk. Second to breathe.
Even in school—straight A’s, debate captain, art competitions—I never once came first. And not because I wasn’t good. I was. But somehow, Max was always better. Or, well… he looked better doing it.
He had that charm. That sharp jawline and confidence that made people stop and stare. Me? I just slipped through unnoticed. I was the quiet one. The background twin.
Dad loved me. I think.
But Max? He got the spotlight. The meetings, the tailor-made suits, the trips to Dubai and Geneva, the gold-plated pen collection. I got matching ones, sure. But mine always came a day late.
It didn’t matter how many awards I brought home—he only ever asked if Max got one too.
But my mother…
My mother saw me.
She sat with me on rainy afternoons, sketchbook open between us, soft music playing in the background. Her hands always smelled like turpentine and jasmine. She had a soft laugh and always said I painted emotions better than anyone.
“You see the world differently, Tris,” she once said, brushing a streak of blue across my canvas. “That’s your power.”
God, I missed her.
Even now, as I sat frozen in this stupid office surrounded by the smell of leather and cold air conditioning, all I could think about was her.
Gone.
They were both gone. Plane crash. Immediate. No survivors. Just like that. No goodbye. No last hug. No “I love you.”
Across from me, Max sat behind our father’s desk, sobbing like his heart had been ripped from his chest. His perfectly styled hair clung to his forehead. His knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the chair.
I couldn’t cry.
I didn’t feel anything. Not anger. Not sorrow. Just… emptiness.
Max suddenly slammed his palm down. “Why aren’t you crying?”
I blinked.
“Say something, damn it!” he screamed. “You don’t feel anything? You never loved Dad? You’re dead inside, Tristan. Fucking dead!”
I looked at him. Really looked. And for a second, I wondered if he was grieving… or performing. Max always knew how to twist his expressions for an audience. He used tears like currency.
But I didn’t answer. I just stood up and walked out.
“Tristan?”
“Sir, where are you going?”
I ignored the voices trailing behind me.
The hallway blurred. My steps felt heavier with every echo on the marble floor.
Outside, the sky had already started crying for me. Perfect timing, I thought. Even the weather took the cue before I could. The rain soaked me in seconds, and for once, I didn’t care.
Let it drown me. Let it wash away the numbness.
I walked. I didn’t know where. I passed buildings, streetlights, strangers staring. I couldn’t hear anything over the thundering in my chest.
And then the memory came. Warm. Golden. Soft.
I was seven. My mother had just come home from the art store with a giant canvas. I had told her I wanted to paint the sea. But Max had taken all the blue paint.
I was sulking in the corner. She came over, kneeling beside me.
“You don’t need blue to paint the ocean,” she said.
“Yes, I do,” I muttered.
She smiled. “You need feeling. The sea doesn’t care about color. It cares about movement, mood, chaos. Paint with your heart, not your eyes.”
So I did.
That was the first painting I ever won a prize for. She framed it. Hung it in her bedroom. God… Mama. Why did you have to go?
That’s when the tears came. Or maybe it was the rain. I couldn’t tell anymore. But they slid down my cheeks and burned like acid.
I wiped my face and ducked into the first building I saw, the yellow sign buzzing above me. A bar. I hadn’t planned on drinking, but the warmth hit me like a punch in the chest the moment I stepped in.
Music played low—bluesy, slow, heavy on the piano. I scanned the room out of habit.
That’s when I saw her.
She was curled up in a booth in the corner, head in her hands, damp hair clinging to her cheeks. Her shoulders shook like she was holding the world on her back. Her clothes were soaked.
But her face—what I could see of it—was something else.
She was beautiful.
Not the kind of beauty you find on runways or in glossy magazines. She looked like a painting someone had poured their soul into. Raw. Real. Unfinished.
What the hell was a girl like her doing in a place like this?