Double Star

13: A Caring Brother.

PoV Sarah:

Your father had a lover.

The words spiraled in my mind, relentless, suffocating. My hands tightened around the wheel, knuckles paling under the strain. No. No, I don't believe it. I won't believe it. How? Why? My father—my father—betrayed my mother? Impossible. He cherished his family. He would never... he could never.

My uncle must have lied. Yes, that's it—he was lying. But why? What did he have to gain? And how could he possibly know? I thought they hated each other...

My thoughts collided, tangled in a web of denial and fear. Could it be true? No. No, I refuse to accept it. My father loved us—loved me. He wasn't a man who could live a double life...

A wave of nausea crashed over me, violent and sudden. My head pounded as if it might split open, and my grip on the wheel wavered. My body felt foreign, drained of all strength, as if the very foundations of my world had cracked beneath me.

God, just let me get home safely.

Somehow, my prayer was answered. I pulled into the driveway, but the dizziness lingered, pressing against my skull. My legs felt unsteady as I stepped out of the car. The house loomed ahead, but I couldn't bring myself to cross the threshold just yet. Gasping for breath, I clung to the iron gate, trying to steady myself.

After a few agonizing seconds, I forced my way inside.

As expected, my aunt was in the kitchen, waiting. The moment she saw me, she leapt from her chair, rushing toward me.

"Sarah! Where were you? What took you so long?" Her hands cupped my face, urgent, worried.

"What happened to you? You're so pale!"

I opened my mouth, but the words never came. The nausea surged again, fierce and unbearable. Without another thought, I bolted to the bathroom, collapsing to my knees as my stomach emptied itself.

Somewhere behind me, I heard my aunt calling my name, her voice laced with alarm. I couldn't respond. My mind was a storm, too loud, too chaotic.

She knelt beside me, brushing my hair back with gentle fingers, her eyes dark with concern. When the convulsions finally subsided, I gasped for air, my body trembling.

Her cool hand pressed against my forehead. "My God, you're burning up!"

"Aunt Jane..." My voice was barely a whisper. The dizziness was pulling me under, the world tilting out of reach. The last thing I felt was the weight of my aunt's hands, gripping my arms as darkness swallowed me whole.

The week passed in a blur, slipping through my fingers as fast as it had begun. But the storm inside me hadn't settled. My uncle's revelation lingered like an unhealed wound, raw and festering.

Aunt Jane never pried. She only asked the simplest of questions—"Are you okay?" "Do you need anything?"—but I still had to justify my late return that night. I told her I had lost track of time while studying at the library and that I wasn't feeling well afterward. It was a flimsy excuse, but she didn't push. And that was good—she could never know where I had truly been.

So now, here I was—Saturday morning, cross-legged on my bed, staring at the scattered papers before me. What was I supposed to do with them? Burn them? Keep them? The documents made little sense to me, but something about them felt wrong.

As I sat in silence, something caught my eye—a glint, small but sharp. I turned toward the flowerpot on the windowsill, reaching for the tiny object hidden in the soil.

The key.

My aunt had dropped it last time, and I had stashed it here, thinking it was a safe place. But now, under the morning light, it gleamed like a secret waiting to be uncovered.