Falling for my Enemy's Brother-Chapter 58: Somewhere Closer

Chemical equations or whatever the hell they’re called were never my thing. From the very beginning, I knew Science wasn’t for me.

Sitting through Adriana’s class today only confirmed it. Choosing Art was probably the best decision I’ve ever made. Science is a complicated bitch we can’t live without, and frankly, I’ve got no patience for that kind of drama.

By the time I reached my apartment, I was already dreaming of my bed. I slid my key into the lock—and paused.

It was already unlocked.

My heart slammed against my ribs. My hand froze on the doorknob. For a second, I questioned my memory. Did I forget to lock it?

No. I’m not that careless.

My fingers darted for my phone. To call Drew, one of my dad’s private security guys. Given our history, I wasn’t about to take chances.

My thumb hovered over Drew’s contact.

This wasn’t paranoia. It was instinct.

I remember when it happened, I was only Sixteen. At São Paulo.

Our suite at the hotel had a private floor. Supposedly secure. But one night, I woke up with a cold hand pressed over my mouth.

I froze. Couldn’t scream. I remember the stench of cigarettes and sweat.

Three men in ski masks had broken in. One was already pinning Conor down on the other side of the room. He kicked and thrashed, but they hit him hard, knocked him out cold.

They were speaking fast, low, in a language I couldn’t understand—Portuguese, I think. It made it worse. The fear of not knowing what they wanted. The confusion of hearing our names mixed in with words I didn’t recognize.

One of them kept shoving me, asking something about codes—what fucking codes?

I don’t remember how I got to the panic button under the nightstand. I don’t even remember pressing it.

But within minutes, the hallway was flooded with security. Gunshots. Screams.

They didn’t get to take us. But Conor had a concussion. I had a scar on my temple from where one of them pistol-whipped me.

Since then, I never sleep without checking the locks three times.

And that’s why, standing outside my unlocked door now, my entire body locked up.

This didn’t feel like a mistake.

It felt like déjà vu.

I tapped Call.

"Sir?" Drew answered instantly.

"I think someone’s in my room."

He didn’t even pause. "Stay clear of the door. We’re en route now."

I ended the call, but instead of waiting like a rational person, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

False alarm or not, I needed to see it for myself.

The room looked untouched at first. Nothing out of place. But as I stepped in deeper, I saw it.

Correction—him.

Conor.

Laid back on my bed, shoes still on like an animal, munching on chips and watching football like he owned the place.

I stared at him, half-annoyed, half-relieved. I hadn’t seen him in what felt like forever. Seeing him now, in my room of all places, hit me harder than I expected.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked, shutting the door behind me.

He twisted around, flashing that irritating grin. "Nice to see you too, Craig. Missed me?"

I exhaled slowly. "How’d you even get in?"

"Asked Luka for your spare key. He gave it up like a champ." Conor held up the key, then returned to his food. "Also, I was starving."

Luka, another one of my dad’s undercover security, who is now one more step from getting fired.

I shook my head, dropping my jacket on the armchair. "And you couldn’t eat somewhere else?"

"Come on, your fridge is always stocked with the good stuff. I figured—why not?"

I leaned against the desk, arms folded. "So you broke into my room for a snack and a match?"

He shrugged like it made perfect sense.

Suddenly, the door burst open before anyone could say another word.

Two men stepped in, dressed in casual jeans and bomber jackets, but their holstered weapons gave them away instantly—Drew.

My father’s security.

Conor flinched upright, startled. "Yo...what the hell? Dad’s here?"

Drew scanned the room, hand hovering near his side. "Mr. Craig, are you okay?" He looked at Conor, "Mr. Conor?"

I raised a hand, clearing my throat. "Yeah. It was just Conor."

The other guy gave a tight nod. "We already cleared the floor. Next time, please confirm visual before initiating protocol."

I gave a sheepish nod. "Right. Sorry."

"Also, avoid entering unsecured zones until we’ve verified safety." He glanced at Conor, then back at me. "We’ll reset perimeter."

With that, they turned and left.

As the door shut behind them, Conor stared at me like I’d grown a second head. "You called them?"

"I thought someone broke in," I said, grabbing a bottle of water from the desk. "Door was unlocked. What was I supposed to think?"

He shook his head, lips curling into a half-smirk. "You’re such a pussy."

"I’m cautious. Big difference."

He stepped closer now, brushing his palms together, his tone shifting—lower, more serious.

"Look," he said, locking eyes with me, "you remember Marjorie Sanchez, right?"

My heart skipped. How could I forget? That name unsettled our family and threatened everything Dad had built. After rumors surfaced accusing Conor of being responsible for Marjorie’s death, investors started pulling out, stock prices took a hit, and Dad spent weeks managing damage control with her husband in hushed meetings. It wasn’t just personal—it was business.

I blinked, steadying myself. "Of course."

He leaned back against the headboard, finally meeting my gaze. "Her daughter’s here. At Belford."

I nodded, trying to keep my reaction neutral. "Uh-huh?" I couldn’t afford to show what she already meant to me.

"I’m positive." He crumpled the chip bag in his hand and tossed it aside. "Merlina Sanchez. She looks just like her—same eyes, same... voice."

Something about his detailed description of Merlina made me pause...made me uneasy. "What’s that supposed to mean?" I asked, a hint of defensiveness creeping into my voice.

Conor leaned forward slightly, lowering the volume on the TV. "I’m saying she’s here for revenge Craig, she came at me, all dangerous and crazy, the girl is unstable man."

My brows drew together. "Merlina?"

"Yeah," he said like the name alone was a punchline. "You have to be on a look out for anyone like that. She’s not just some grieving kid, she’s a time bomb."

Dangerous and unstable weren’t exactly the words I’d use. Feisty? Absolutely. Sharp? Without question. But there was a sadness behind her fire, not chaos. If anything, she seemed... guarded.

Nothing about her felt reckless. Not to me.

"I’ve met her," I said carefully. "She’s not what you’re describing."

Conor’s head whipped toward me. "What?"

I offered a slight nod, careful not to reveal more than necessary. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to drag out.

He let out a low whistle, disbelief written all over his face. "So you knew? And didn’t think to tell me?"

I raised an eyebrow. "You’ve been MIA for weeks. I tried talking to you last Friday. You were higher than the sky. That attempt went nowhere."

He scoffed. "What a sorry excuse."

I didn’t flinch. "I’m serious, Conor. You need to slow down. You’re not invincible." My voice lowered, steadier now. "Do you want to end up back in rehab?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks, Mom."

"You think this is a joke?" I asked sharper than I intended. He didn’t say anything, just wiped his chip-stained fingers on my pillow like the absolute menace he was.

Sometimes I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Conor. Being the first son, from the moment he could walk, he was handed a legacy to carry. Not gently—forcefully. Our father didn’t raise him; he molded him. Shaped him like steel, expecting him not to bend, not to break.

Every mistake was magnified. Every crack, punished. And even when he did well, it was never enough. Not really.

Conor learned to perform under pressure, to smile through the bruises no one could see. To numb what he couldn’t fix.

And somewhere along the line, he stopped being a person to them, he became a project.

I don’t think he ever got to just... be a kid. And now? Now he’s a man who’s still drowning in a life that was designed to swallow him whole.

And the saddest part? He still wants to make our dad proud.

"Relax," he muttered. "I’ve got it under control."

"You don’t look like it."

He shot me a glare but didn’t argue. That silence said enough.

I leaned against the desk again, watching him.

The room settled into a silence thick with things neither of us wanted to say.

"What did you talk about with Merlina?" I asked after a long pause.

His eyes flicked back to the screen, like he needed something else to focus on. "I told her the truth. That I didn’t do it."

"And?"

He smirked, but it was bitter—like he was trying to laugh off something that still hurt. "Got me a slap in the face."

"She hit you?"

"Yeah," he said, like it was a badge of honor. "Told you, the girl’s crazy."

I couldn’t help the small, almost amused smile that tugged at my lips. The thought of Merlina slapping Conor was wild—and yet, it felt strangely perfect. Like proof she saw the difference. The slap wasn’t just anger, it was a line drawn in the sand, one she’d never had to draw with me. With me, her guard slipped. She let the silence stretch, let my hands help, let her gaze linger. It was proof that she knew I wasn’t him. That in her world, I stood somewhere softer. Somewhere closer.

And somehow, that said everything.

But just as quickly, the warmth faded, replaced by a creeping unease. I sank into the chair across from him, mind racing. Merlina. Marjorie. My father. Our past. This wasn’t just a random reunion between Conor and Merlina. I couldn’t help feeling that this was the beginning of something messy.

"Do you think he knows?" I asked, my voice quieter now. "Dad. About her daughter being here?"

Conor hesitated. That pause said more than anything else.

"For her sake," he said finally, "I hope he doesn’t."