POV Leo
“You went out with her?” I let the words drop heavy into the space, my gaze shifting from Milo to Victor as we sat around the kitchen island. The bottle of gin between us gleamed under the pendant light, half-empty, the glasses sweating onto the marble. My tone was flat, but the slight lift of Victor’s eyebrow told me it still hit sharp.
“And you too?” I added, my voice slicing through the silence.
Victor leaned back in his chair, wearing that infuriatingly calm expression of his — too calm. “Why does it matter? We always do that.” His voice had that nonchalant arrogance, the kind that made you wonder if he meant it or if he was deliberately minimizing something.
He wasn’t wrong. This was how we played the game. One girl, three brothers, separate dates. It was about strategy, not sentiment. But this time… there was a knot in my stomach I didn’t like. A dull, persistent twist. I knew exactly what it was, but I’d burn the words before saying them out loud.
Jealousy.
And the worst part? It wasn’t just because they’d taken her out. It was because I’d seen the way Milo had been looking at her lately. Like he’d found something worth holding on to. Like she was his.
Milo’s eyes narrowed across the table. “What’s your problem?”
“No problem,” I said, picking up my glass and taking a slow sip. “Just wondering.”
Victor smirked faintly, his gaze flicking between us like he was waiting for the collision.
Milo’s fingers tapped against the countertop, slow and deliberate. “On that note,” he said after a moment, “I was wondering… can I get out of the game?”
That made me set my glass down. “What? Why?”
He hesitated, jaw tight, like the words tasted bad in his mouth. “Well… I think I found the one.”
The air shifted. I stared at him. “The game wasn’t exactly designed to find the one.”
“I know,” he said, leaning forward. “But I’m not going to keep playing if it’s going to hurt her.”
Victor’s easy posture stiffened slightly, but he stayed quiet.
My voice sharpened. “Who is it?”
There was a pause — the kind that lets you hear your own pulse in your ears. Then Milo’s voice dropped low. “Mira Kensington.”
Victor coughed so suddenly he nearly choked. My own jaw went tight enough to ache.
“What?” Milo’s head snapped between us.
“Mira is off limits,” I said, my words clipped, controlled.
His brow furrowed. “Off limits? What do you mean off limits?”
I leaned forward, elbows on the counter, holding his gaze. “She’s part of the game. And the game needs to be played.”
Milo shook his head with a humorless laugh. “You’re talking about her like she’s a pawn on a chessboard.”
“That’s exactly what she is,” I said flatly. “You know the rules. We see it through.”
“No,” he shot back, his voice rising. “You see it through. I’m done. I’m not dragging her into whatever twisted competition you two think this is.”
The words punched harder than I expected. Not because I thought he was wrong — but because I knew exactly why he wanted out. I’d seen the way he painted lately, how his strokes had gone from abstract chaos to something painfully intentional. He’d made her his muse, and that wasn’t something Milo did lightly.
And I hated it.
I hated that he’d claimed a piece of her, even if it was only on canvas. I hated that he could look at her in broad daylight and let it show, when I was still playing the long game — keeping my cards close, hiding the fact that I was just as far gone.
“Careful,” I warned, my voice low.
Milo stood abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor. “No, Leo. I’m serious. If you two want to keep playing, fine. Leave me out of it. And leave her out of it.”
Victor’s eyes flicked between us, like he was watching two wolves circle each other, waiting to see who would bite first.
Milo shook his head once more, like the sight of me was something he couldn’t stand, and stalked out of the kitchen. His footsteps echoed down the hall before fading completely.
The silence left behind was thicker than the gin fumes in the air.
I took another slow sip, staring at nothing. My pulse was steady, but the irritation was coiled tight under my skin.
“That went well,” Victor muttered.
I didn’t answer him. My mind wasn’t on the argument anymore. It was on the painting I’d seen half-finished in Milo’s studio last week. The one with the gold bleeding into red. He thought I didn’t notice. He thought he could hide it under vague brushstrokes and careful lighting. But I’d recognized her the second I saw it. Not her face — but her presence. It was her. Every line, every curve, was Mira.
It made something sharp twist in my chest.
Milo had already put her somewhere I couldn’t reach — on canvas, immortalized. And worse, he’d done it without hesitation. That was dangerous. That was personal. And I couldn’t have that. Not when the same girl had been haunting my thoughts for months, dragging me into emotions I didn’t have a name for yet.
I didn’t like losing. And I especially didn’t like losing to my own brother.
Without another word to Victor, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. My thumbs moved fast, each tap deliberate.
Email to: Mira Kensington
Pack your bags. We are leaving the country.
I hit send.
And I didn’t care what Milo thought.
Because if he was going to make his move, so was I.