Chapter 28
Aurelia
The revelation hit me like a wave crashing over the shore, but instead of drowning me, it pulled me under in a way that made me see Keith clearly for the first time since the warehouse.
Two weeks of isolation had given me space to breathe, to process the chaos that had upended my life.
As Keith knelt before me in my bedroom, his voice breaking as he confessed the horrors he'd uncovered, I felt a shift.
Empathy bloomed in my chest, warm and unexpected, pushing back the anger that had fueled my flight from New York.
He'd suffered more than enough. The weight of his family's sins had crushed him, his broad shoulders slumping under the burden as he sobbed, the man who'd built an island reduced to a broken figure on my floor.
His connection to Marcus Krogen, the architect of so much pain, didn't define him.
Keith had always been there for me. He'd protected me, loved me in ways no one else had.
His actions speaking louder than blood ties.
How could I hold him accountable for sins he didn't commit, for a legacy he'd rejected?
He wasn't his father, he was the man who'd chosen me, who'd vowed to burn it all down for us.
The thought softened the edges of my hurt, replacing the nausea with a quiet resolve.
We were both scarred, both survivors, perhaps that was what bound us.
I helped him to his feet, his hands warm in mine, his eyes red-rimmed but grateful. "We should go downstairs," I said softly, wiping a tear from his cheek. "My parents are probably wondering what's going on."
He nodded, straightening his shirt, running a hand through his messy hair. "Yeah."
I took his hand, our fingers interlacing as we descended the creaky stairs, the familiar scent of apple pie wafting from the kitchen, a comforting anchor in the emotional storm.
Keith followed behind me, his steps heavier than usual, like the weight of his confessions still clung to him.
My parents were there, Mom fidgeting with a dishtowel in the kitchen doorway.
Dad sat in his recliner, his weathered face stern, eyes sharp as he looked up from his newspaper.
"Aurelia?" Mom said, stepping forward, her voice tentative. "Everything alright, honey?"
I nodded, squeezing Keith's hand. "Yes, Mom. Dad. This is Keith..."
Keith stepped forward, his posture straightening despite the vulnerability I'd just witnessed, extending his hand to Dad first. "Sir," he said, his voice respectful, almost formal, "it's a pleasure to meet you."
Dad took his hand, his grip firm, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed Keith with that air of quiet power even in casual clothes. "Declan Sterling," he replied, his tone guarded. "And this is my wife, Hazel."
Keith turned to Mom, shaking her hand gently. "Ma'am, thank you for welcoming me."
Mom's expression softened almost immediately, her warm nature winning over any initial wariness, a smile breaking through as she clasped his hand in both of hers. "Oh, please, call me Hazel. And come in, sit down! You look like you've had a long drive. Can I get you some coffee? Or tea?"
Keith smiled lightly, his dimples appearing briefly. "Coffee would be great, thank you, Hazel.”
“We have fresh apple pie in the kitchen.” mom said
“Pie, I haven't had in years.” Keith confessed.
Mom beamed, bustling off to the kitchen, her voice carrying back. "Years? That's no way to live! Keith, make yourself comfortable. Declan, don't just sit there, talk to the boy!"
Dad grumbled but folded his newspaper, gesturing to the sofa. "Have a seat, son."
I whispered to Dad, "Be nice, please. He's... been through a lot."
Dad looked at me then, his blue eyes searching mine, seeing the plea, the depth of my feelings, perhaps the way my hand lingered on Keith's arm. His expression eased, the guard dropping slightly as he nodded. "Alright, kid."
Mom called from the kitchen, “Aurelia, sweetheart, can you help me with the cups?” Grateful for the brief escape, I walked into the kitchen. Mom was bustling between cabinets, pulling out the good china she only used for guests who mattered.
“You okay?” she whispered, eyebrows lifting meaningfully.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure she believed me. Together we arranged the tray. Cups, sugar bowl, extra cookies she insisted on adding and carried it back.
Keith sat politely when I re-entered. I set the tray down, then slipped onto the sofa beside him, close enough that our knees brushed. Dad noticed. He noticed everything.
Keith sat, his posture relaxed but alert, as Dad leaned forward. "So, Keith, what do you do?"
Keith nodded, accepting the coffee Mom handed him with a thank you. "I run a real estate conglomerate, sir. Elysian Haven's my latest project."
Dad's eyebrows rose. "Real estate? Sounds ambitious. Family business?"
Keith's jaw tightened briefly, but he smiled. "Not really. I've branched out on my own."
Mom's eyes widened. "Resorts? Like those fancy islands in magazines? Oh, wait, Keith Krogen? The Keith Krogen? I saw your picture in Architectural Digest last month! That island resort, Elysian Haven? You built that?"
Keith gave a small laugh, a genuine sound that warmed the room. "Guilty as charged. It's been a labor of love."
Mom's eyes widened, her hand to her chest. "Well, our Aurelia bringing home a celebrity. Tell us more, how did you two meet?"
I blushed, but Keith glanced at me with a soft smile. "Through the project. She's designing the interiors. Talented as hell. Her ideas for the interiors brought it to life."
Dad nodded, easing further. "Sounds like she's making her mark. Always knew she would. So, Keith, you from New York originally?"
"Born and raised," Keith replied, sipping his coffee. "Although my ancestors have their origin from Denmark. But this island's my escape. Peace away from the city chaos."
Mom leaned in, her voice warm like family already. "Escapes are important. Aurelia's been through a lot lately, coming home for rest. But having you here... it lights her up. We can see that."
Keith's eyes met mine, a flicker of gratitude. "She does the same for me, Hazel."
The conversation flowed from there, Dad launching into stories of carburetor rebuilds and rusty frames, Mom chiming in with tales of Dad's "garage explosions" that had singed his eyebrows more than once.
I watched, a calm settling over me for the first time in weeks, seeing Keith fit so seamlessly, his arm around my shoulders, his fingers playing with the end of my braid when Mom wasn't looking, stealing a quick kiss on my temple that made me blush and swat his hand away playfully.
"Stop," I whispered, but my smile betrayed me, his dimple flashing in response.
"Can't help it," he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. "You're too distracting."
Andrew had left earlier, after an awkward goodbye at the door, his eyes lingering on me with unspoken questions. "Catch up soon?" he'd said, and I'd nodded vaguely, my mind already on Keith.
Killian burst in then, the front door swinging open with his usual energy, his jacket slung over one shoulder, his dark hair tousled, blue eyes sharp as he scanned the room. "Hey, family. What's the - Oh. Company."
I stood, smiling. "Killian, this is Keith Krogen. Keith, my brother, Killian Sterling."
Keith rose, extending his hand. "Pleasure, Killian. Aurelia's told me about you."
Killian shook it, his grip firm, eyes assessing. “Krogen? As in the island guy?” he said with a half-smile. “Heard about you.”
Keith arched a brow. Killian chuckled and shook his head. “From our mum actually. She wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks. Said there’s this man who built an island out of nothing but ambition and saltwater.”
A faint smile touched Keith’s mouth. “Sounds like she gives me too much credit.”
Killian shrugged. “Maybe. But she said anyone who turns empty ocean into paradise is worth keeping an eye on. Anyways, what brings you to Galena?"
Keith meets my gaze evenly. "Aurelia."
Killian’s eyes wide, but soon easing slightly. "Fair enough. Treat her right. Aurelia’s been through enough. I don’t want to see her hurt again.”
Keith smiled faintly. "Understood."
Mum brought out more snacks then, cheese and crackers, fresh grapes, slices of that apple pie, setting them on the coffee table as we all sat on the couch.
Keith sat besides me. The conversation flowed.
Then Keith noticed the baseball memorabilia on the walls, signed balls, old gloves, a photo of Dad coaching Little League.
"Baseball fan?" Keith asked Killian, nodding to a framed Yankees jersey.
Killian grinned. "Die-hard. You?"
Keith leaned forward. "Grew up watching the Mets, underdogs, you know? But I respect the Yanks' history. That '78 season, epic."
Killian laughed. "Mets? Brave choice. But yeah, '78 was gold. Remember Bucky Dent's homer?"
"Legendary," Keith replied, his eyes lighting up. "Changed the game."
Dad joined in. "Dent's shot broke hearts, but that's baseball. Unpredictable."
The talk shifted to games, stats, favorite players.
. Everyone eased, laughter filling the room, the tension dissolving like mist in the sun.
I watched Keith, calm and engaging, looking so at home with my family, his smile genuine as he bantered with Killian, complimented Mom's pie, "Best I've ever tasted, Hazel.
" My heart swelled, the empathy from earlier deepening into love, the calm washing over me like a balm.