12. Burned BridgesMila
Twelve
Burned Bridges
Mila
I wake up with a start, the memories of last night haunting me. My throat burns, my chest feels hollow, and my eyes are swollen from crying myself into oblivion. I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my face, but the dull ache behind my eyes doesn’t ease. Sleep didn’t do its job.
The moment I step out of my room, I notice it.
Flowers.
Everywhere.
White and red blooms are draped along the staircase railing, wound around door handles, scattered across every table. It’s like the mansion is choking on a garden. My stomach churns. This isn’t normal.
I move quickly down the stairs, the bad feeling sitting heavy in my gut. When I reach the living room, I find my father sitting on the couch, laughing softly at something Layla says. They’re drinking tea, as if the world hasn’t spun completely off its axis. They never get along, what is happening?
He’s smiling.
Not the tight-lipped smile he gives to guests, or the condescending smirk he flashes when he’s pretending to be amused. No, this is different—he looks genuinely happy, something I haven’t seen in years.
“Good morning,” I mumble, barely audible, and head toward the kitchen before anyone can drag me into whatever is happening. I grab an apple from the counter.
“No breakfast, Ana?” I ask one of the younger maids, and she looks up from where she’s arranging a bouquet.
“ Br, br, br,” she says quickly in Serbian, the universal no. There’s a bright smile on her face, though, and her voice is practically bouncing as she adds, “Everyone is busy preparing for the celebration!”
“Celebration?” I question, confusion pulling my brows together.
“Yeah!” she chirps, oblivious to the dread blooming in my chest. She picks up a bucket of flowers and grins at me, like this is the best day of her life. “Go to Mr. Jovanovich! He’ll tell you the good news.”
I watch her scurry off, humming a cheery tune as she splashes more color across the house. My apple sits forgotten on the counter.
Good news?
My fingers grip the counter as I brace myself. This mansion doesn’t do good news. Not the kind of good that comes without strings, without some knife poised to slit your throat when you least expect it.
My feet feel like they’re trudging through wet cement as I walk toward the living room. The smell of flowers, sickly sweet and overwhelming, clings to the air. It’s like the mansion is mocking me, dressed up in celebration while I feel like I’m marching toward my own execution.
I stop just outside the doorway, my fingers brushing against the doorframe as I take a shaky breath. I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to know what’s behind all of this. But I force myself to step inside anyway, my body moving on autopilot.
My father is sprawled on the couch, a wide, smug grin plastered across his face. Layla sits beside him, her head bowed low, her hands fidgeting in her lap. They can’t even be in the same room without snapping at one another, but here they are, playing house.
I lower myself onto the couch next to Layla, my body stiff. I grab the teapot and pour myself a cup, not because I want tea but because I need something to do with my hands. I sip it, the liquid cool against my tongue. Of course, it is. They’ve clearly been here for a while.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“A huge celebration,” my father says, his grin stretching wider.
My heart sinks. I take another sip of tea, letting the bitterness coat my throat as if it can drown out the unease clawing at me. Layla still hasn’t looked up, and that single detail sends a spike of panic through my chest. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
“Let’s just say,” my father says, leaning back like a man about to drop the bomb of the century, “there will be a wedding very soon in this family.”
The words hit me like a slap, stealing the breath from my lungs. My hand trembles as I set the teacup down on the table, the clink louder than I intend.
“Who’s the groom?” I manage, though my voice cracks. I can’t bring myself to ask the other question, the one that matters most…Who’s the bride?
“Rafael Ivanov.”
The name cuts through the air like a blade, and my stomach drops so fast it’s like I’m free-falling. My heart feels like it’s been ripped out of my chest and stomped on. Rafael.
He asked for my hand in marriage?
The memory of last night floods back. The way he touched me, whispered to me, and then ripped the rug out from under me. He’s toying with me. That has to be it. He thinks I’m something he can claim, like a piece of property, with no regard for what I want.
My teeth grind together, and I force my hands to stay still. Rage boils under my skin, mixing with the humiliation clawing at my throat. He thinks he can buy me? He thinks my father’s greed is all it takes to seal the deal?
He’s wrong. So, so wrong.
“Congratulate Layla.”
Hell passes over my skin. No, hell invades it, consuming every cell, lighting me on fire from the inside out. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the rush of my own blood. Jealousy—sharp, acidic, and bitter—burns through me, leaving destruction in its wake.
I’m jealous. I’m jealous of my sister.
The realization makes me want to scream, to claw at my own chest. It makes me hate her, hate the way she’s sitting there so calm. For the first time in my life, I hate Layla. And I hate my father even more.
But most of all, I hate Rafael.
Rafael, who kissed me. Rafael, who touched me. Rafael, who gave me more firsts than I could count and then threw me away like I was a bad taste he couldn’t wash out of his mouth.
I swallow the lump in my throat. My nails dig deep into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me, barely. “Congratulations, Layla,” I mumble, the words thick and heavy like they’re being dragged out of me by force.
Layla doesn’t move. She doesn’t even look at me.
“You know,” my father starts, and I want to cover my ears, but I don’t. I sit there and listen because I don’t have a choice. “I thought it would be a lot harder to convince her, but she said yes before I even finished the sentence. That was wise.”
Wise.
I’m going to implode. I feel it.
“Congratulations again, Layla,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, even if it feels like it might crack in half. I try to smile, but it’s brittle. “I hope I’m the Kuma .”
Finally, she looks at me. Her gaze is small, hesitant, like she’s tiptoeing across a minefield. And then she smiles, just a tiny, nervous curl of her lips.
She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that I love him. She doesn’t know that I want him in ways that aren’t even close to platonic.
But how am I supposed to tell that to my heart ? How am I supposed to make it understand that it’s already lost?
“I’m just going to go take a shower,” I say, standing abruptly. “And then maybe we can discuss the wedding plans.”
I don’t wait for a response. My legs move faster than my mind, carrying me up the stairs. As soon as I reach my room, I slam the door shut and sit on the bed, my chest heaving as I try to breathe through the suffocating rage, the heartbreak.
But it doesn’t work. None of it works.
The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look up to know it’s her. Layla hesitates, like she’s testing the air before stepping into it. My fingers smooth over the blanket in my lap, and my hands tremble, betraying me.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, breaking the silence.
“Sorry for what?” My voice is detached. I keep my eyes down. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
It’s a lie, and we both know it. Heat spreads under my skin, jealousy twisting in my chest. And something darker—hatred. Hatred for her, for him, for my father. But mostly for myself, for feeling all of it.
“Mila,” she says, stepping closer, her footsteps almost tentative. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend it doesn’t bother you. I know it does.”
I glance up at her then, meeting her gaze with as much indifference as I can fake. “It doesn’t,” I say, lying through clenched teeth.
Her voice cracks, desperation leaking into her tone. “I know this is hard for you. Even if you don’t have feelings for him—”
“I don’t,” I snap, cutting her off before she can finish. My throat tightens, and I force myself to swallow hard, to stay calm.
She doesn’t stop. “Even if you don’t, he’s your childhood best friend. This has to mean something to you.”
I stare at her, my face a mask of emptiness. She doesn’t get it.
“I don’t feel any type of way, Layla,” I say. “And besides, if you thought this might hurt me, why’d you agree to it?”
Her shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. She moves closer, sitting beside me, the bed dipping under her weight. “I could lie and say Father wouldn’t have given me a choice,” she begins. “And that’s true. He wouldn’t have. But that’s not why I said yes.”
I glance at her, my frown deepening. “Then why?”
She meets my gaze, her eyes swimming with something I can’t quite name—fear? Resignation? “This is my chance, Mila,” she says softly. “A chance to get out of this hellhole. Out of Father’s control.”
Her words hit like a slap. “What did he ever do to you to make you hate him so much?” I snap.
She exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair. “You’re still looking at him through rose-colored glasses,” she says, barely above a whisper.
I shake my head, the motion jerky and frantic. “He loves us,” I hiss.
Her hand reaches out, cupping my cheek before I can pull away. The touch is soft, warm, but it feels like fire against my skin. “No, Mila,” she stresses. “You don’t see it. You don’t see how much he controls you. How he’s made you bend yourself in half to please him.”
I jerk back, my voice rising. “That’s not true! He—he’s strict, yes, but it’s because he cares!”
“He’s done nothing but take from you, Mila. And you don’t even see it. But I can’t stay here and let him take from me too. That’s why I said yes.”
The words hang heavy in the air, pressing down on me. My chest feels like it’s caving in, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. I want to argue, to scream, to tell her she’s wrong. But a tiny, traitorous voice deep inside whispers that she might be right.
Layla grips my hand, her fingers trembling slightly. “I’ll get us out of here, Mila. I promise,” she says.
I pull my hand back. “What if I don’t want to get out?” The question escapes before I can stop it, and I immediately regret it.
Layla slams her palm against the bed. Her frustration spills over as she leans closer, gripping my arm like she’s trying to anchor me. “Please. I’m begging you, open your eyes,” she pleads. “See how he treats you. The way he looks at you like you’re a possession. The way he speaks to you like your opinions don’t matter. The way he controls every part of your life.”
Her words sting, each one cutting deeper than the last. I force myself to push back. “And what if you’re just walking into another cage? Maybe an even worse one?”
“There’s no cage worse than this, Mila. None.” She breathes. “I’ll get us out,” she insists again, like it’s a mantra she can’t let go of.
I can’t stop the bitterness from spilling out. “Get me out of here, and then what? Leave me to watch you play house with Rafael? To see you kiss him, love him, wear his ring?”
I gasp and slap my hand over my mouth. “Layla, I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean that. I want you to be happy. I really do. It’s just—everything’s so overwhelming, and I—”
Before I can finish, she pulls me into her arms, her hold tight. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I understand. I’m sorry too, Mila. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but it’s the only way. The only way to get out of this stupid mansion, this life.”
Her words break something in me, and all I can do is let her hold me as my tears soak into her shoulder.