A Criminal Kiss [Max Verstappen]

chapter eight

The past few days had been relentless. My father paraded a string of suitors through our home, each one duller, more self-important, and entirely more insufferable than the last. And with every polite refusal or half-hearted smile I gave, his frustration grew, his temper fraying at the edges like an old rope.

"You don't need to like him," he'd said just the other day, pacing in front of the drawing room fireplace while I sat, rigid, on the sofa. "You don't need to love him. You just need to accept reality! A man with standing, wealth—he will secure your future and ours!"

But I wanted more than that. I wanted a choice, a future that felt like mine. Father seemed incapable of understanding, his every lecture like a hammer pounding away at a wall I couldn't rebuild fast enough. So I hid. From him, from the suitors, from the heavy weight of expectations pressing down on me.

That's how Clara found me, curled up in the corner of my room, staring out the rain-speckled window.

There was no knock—of course, there wasn't. Clara never knocked. She swept into the room like she owned it, her skirts rustling dramatically as she paused in the doorway.

"Ann," she said, her tone tentative, which immediately made me suspicious.

I didn't turn around. I knew her too well. "If you're here to defend Father, save your breath."

"I'm not here for him," she said, with just enough edge to make me look over my shoulder. She stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of her, a rare nervousness on her face. Clara, nervous? That was unusual. Normally, she was brimming with confidence—the kind that only came with being the youngest, babied, and free from family duty.

"Then why are you here?" I asked, turning back to the window.

For once, Clara hesitated, as though unsure of herself. Then, in a small voice, she said, "I came to apologise."

That got my attention. I turned slowly, narrowing my eyes. "Apologise? You?"

"Yes, me," she said, rolling her eyes but fidgeting with the ribbon on her dress. "Don't make it weird."

"I didn't realize you knew the word sorry," I said dryly, crossing my arms.

Her cheeks turned pink, and she huffed. "I do! And I mean it, Ann. I was wrong, okay? I shouldn't have said you were expecting too much, or sided with Father, or... or any of it."

I stared at her, taken aback. Clara was rarely reflective—her apologies, when they came, were usually mumbled after being caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. This, though, felt real.

"What changed?" I asked, suspicion creeping into my tone.

Her eyes darted to the floor. "I... I realised I'm not any better than you," she admitted softly. "I've been pretending I'm fine with everything Father wants, but I'm not. I'm scared, Ann. Terrified, really. That he'll find out about Franco. That he'll..." She trailed off, biting her lip. "That he'll ruin both of us because I couldn't keep my heart in check."

"You're scared?" I said, incredulous. "You? The Clara who thinks rules are optional and consequences are for other people?"

She flushed even deeper, throwing her hands up. "Yes, I'm scared! Don't rub it in. It's awful, and I hate it."

Despite myself, a smile tugged at my lips. Clara, my chaotic, carefree little sister, was finally learning what it felt like to be weighed down by the world. It was almost comforting—though I'd never admit that to her.

I sighed, walking over to sit beside her on the edge of my bed. "Clara," I said, my tone softening.

She looked up at me, her wide eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You're braver than I am," she said suddenly.

I laughed—a short, bitter sound. "It doesn't feel like bravery," I admitted. "It feels like madness. Father's so certain I'm the problem. That if I just gave up on love, on happiness, everything would be fine. But I can't do it, Clara. I can't marry someone I don't care about. I won't."

She nodded, her expression suddenly serious. "You're right to hold out for something real. I wish I'd supported you sooner."

We sat there in silence, the sound of the rain filling the room. For once, Clara wasn't bouncing around the space, touching everything she could get her hands on. She was still, thoughtful—a side of her I rarely saw.

"I just... ugh, Franco is so amazing," she blurted suddenly, breaking the moment. "He's not boring like the rest of the men in this town—he's funny and kind, and he doesn't care about titles, and—"

"Clara," I interrupted, laughing. "It's okay. I know you like him. He seems nice. Just... be careful, yeah?"

She gave me a sheepish grin, her earlier seriousness already melting away. "I will. Promise."

I reached out, pulling her into a hug. For a moment, she stiffened—Clara never was one for physical affection—but then she relaxed, leaning into me. "You're too serious sometimes," she mumbled into my shoulder, her tone teasing.

"And you're too reckless," I replied, laughing.

"Maybe," she said, pulling back with a grin. "But at least I keep things interesting."

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thanks for reading :)
short one for now, just needed the sisters back together 🤞🙏
891 words