40 | Brotherly love

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"Now's not a great time, Nicco," Jacques says, blocking the doorway with his body, his voice firm but edged with frustration

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"Now's not a great time, Nicco," Jacques says, blocking the doorway with his body, his voice firm but edged with frustration.

"Fuck you, let me in," I snap, pushing forward, feeling my anger rising.

"No, Nicco," he repeats, his stance unyielding. His eyes flicker with something—guilt maybe—but he doesn't budge.

"Jacques, she's been locked in that room for a week. Let me fucking see her!" I shout, my voice echoing in the hall, vibrating with my pent-up rage.

He pauses, eyes narrowing, but then finally steps aside, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Thank you," I mutter under my breath, brushing past him as I storm up the stairs.

Each step feels heavier as I approach her door. I take a breath, trying to prepare myself for what I'll find on the other side.

I knock on the door, waiting for any kind of response. Nothing.

I knock again, harder this time. Still, nothing.

Panic surges through me, and I take a step back, bracing myself before I barge through the door. It flies open with a crash, revealing a dimly lit room. My heart drops when I see her lying motionless on the bed, curled up like she's trying to disappear from the world.

"Valentina," I call out, rushing over to her. I shake her gently, desperate for some kind of response. For a second, I think she's completely gone, but then I hear it—a faint sob, barely there but enough to break through my panic.

"Hey, hey, hey, come here," I say, pulling her up and into my arms. She doesn't resist, just lets me hold her, her small frame trembling in my grip.

That's when I notice it—something clutched tightly to her chest. I gently unwrap her arms, my heart racing. When I finally pull it free, I see what it is: a tiny teddy bear, the kind you'd buy for a baby.

My chest cracks wide open, and all the air leaves my lungs. It all hits me in a single, crushing blow.

I can barely breathe.

I stare at the tiny bear in my hand, trembling as I hold it. The soft, worn fabric feels fragile—just like everything she's been trying to keep buried. Her pain, her grief, all of it bundled into this small, heartbreaking reminder of what she's lost.

"Val..." I whisper, my voice cracking. I glance at her, but her eyes are vacant, staring somewhere far away, in a place I can't reach. Her body quivers, though the sobs have faded, her silent shaking telling me she's been battling this alone for too long.

Her hair, once meticulously styled, is now tangled and matted, a clear sign of neglect. She hasn't showered in days, and there's a stale scent lingering in the room, mixed with the faint remnants of perfume. Her clothes cling to her as if they've been worn too long, and the shadows under her eyes reveal sleepless nights I hadn't noticed.

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