Twisted Chances

13. Niko (Warning) (edited)

My plan had been simple—keep making Nia jealous until she finally admitted her feelings for me.
It was supposed to be harmless. A push. A spark to make her confess what I've been waiting for years to hear.

But the day I saw her cry... I regretted everything.

The image haunts me even now: her eyes glassy, lips trembling, chest rising and falling with the weight of tears she didn't want me to see. I'd thought myself clever, hiding behind Brittany's hand on my arm, her smile pressed against mine for the world to see. But cleverness turned to cruelty the moment I realised I had broken something in her.

Did I hurt her that badly? Did she feel ignored, unwanted, replaced?
That was never the plan.

Or worse—did she look at Brittany and decide that she and I could never happen? That her feelings were pointless? That she should bury them before they even had a chance to bloom?

The thought makes my chest tighten until I can hardly breathe.

"Shit!" I curse out loud, jerking my hand back as a sharp sting bursts at the tip of my thumb. A bead of blood forms where the needle bit into me. The red blooms against the ivory silk of the gown I'm sewing, and my stomach twists with dread.

I almost ruined it.

This isn't just any gown—it's the most important commission of my career so far. A wedding gown requested by Madam Smith herself.

My mentor. My idol. My first teacher—the one who taught me to hold a needle, who noticed the boy fumbling with thread and patience, and chose not to laugh but to guide instead. The woman who saw me long before I saw myself.

I remember the day I met her. I was just a stupid kid then, sneaking into Sofia's co-curricular class, wearing a wig and her spare uniform to spy on her and some boy named Jonathan. Ridiculous. But that ridiculous day changed my life. I borrowed a needle, clumsy hands trembling, and Madam Smith noticed me immediately. She didn't scold. She smiled. She leaned down, golden hair like spun light falling around us, and she showed me how to thread the eye, how to steady my hand. She gave me patience where I had none. That was the beginning of everything.

And now... she asked me to make her wedding gown.

The fabric between my hands isn't just cloth—it's gratitude, respect, years of admiration stitched into every seam. I've never poured so much of myself into anything. And yet, even in the middle of this, Nia intrudes. Her tears, her silence, her distance...

I press my thumb to my lips, tasting the faint copper of blood, and sigh.

It's been two weeks since I saw her cry.

Two weeks since I felt her slip through my fingers.

I thought arranging another fake date with Brittany would provoke her. That she'd show up like she always did, storming in with fire in her eyes, throwing jealous little barbs that told me more truth than she ever dared to speak out loud. But she didn't.

She didn't come. She didn't call.

She didn't even care.

When I phoned her afterward, pretending I couldn't reach Eithan and just wanted to hear her voice, she was polite. Normal. Too normal. Even Brittany noticed it—her surprise mirroring my own.

That's when the fear took root.

What if she's trying to lose her feelings? What if she's decided I'm not worth it, that we aren't worth it?

The thought is unbearable.

But I can't just walk into Harper's mansion to demand answers. Uncle Christian would kill me on the spot if I dared sneak into his daughter's room. So I sit here, suffocating beneath the weight of unfinished gowns and unsaid words, drowning in whiskey to quiet the ache.