3. To Save Her
To Save Her
Gabriel
The greenhouse is the only place in this house that doesn't feel like a tomb.
I've been coming here since I was a child—since before my mother died, since before my father became a monument to grief, since before this family learned to consume everything it touches.
The orchids were her obsession. She planted them with her own hands, nursed them through the brutal winters, taught me their names in a voice that sounded like music.
Phalaenopsis. Cattleya. Dendrobium.
I can still hear her saying them. I can still see her fingers, stained with soil, gentle on the petals. She used to tell me that orchids were the most patient flowers in the world—they could wait years for the perfect conditions to bloom.
She was wrong about a lot of things. But she was right about that.
I've been waiting for a year. Waiting for Monika to bloom. Waiting for her to realize she doesn't belong in this cage. Waiting for her to let me save her.
She hasn't. She won't. And I don't know how to keep waiting.
Dawn is breaking over the garden, painting the glass walls in shades of gold and rose. I've been here since before sunrise, sitting on the same bench where she kissed me for the first time, watching the light change and the orchids stir.
I should be studying. I should be packing. Stanford starts in six weeks, and I've barely touched my bags. Every time I try to leave, something keeps me here.
Her face. Her voice. The way she said my name like it was the only thing that made sense.
She's in the house, sleeping in a room that isn't hers, tangled in sheets that belong to a family that's eating her alive.
I should be in there with her. I should be protecting her.
Instead, I'm here, surrounded by dead things that are still alive, pretending I have any control over what happens next.
The orchids don't judge me. They don't ask questions. They just bloom and wither and bloom again, indifferent to the chaos happening around them.
I wish I could be that indifferent.
I wish I could stop caring.
I find her in the garden at dusk.
She's sitting on the frozen bench near the pond, her breath fogging in the cold. She's wearing a coat that's too thin—one of mine, I realize, the dark green one she's been borrowing for months. She looks small against the dying light. She looks like she's waiting for something.
I sit beside her. I don't touch her. I don't know if she wants to be touched.
"You're out here late," I say.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
We sit in silence for a long moment. The sun is setting over the tree line, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. The garden is frozen, the plants dead, the pond iced over. Everything is waiting for spring.
Everything is waiting for something that might never come.
"I need to save you," I say. The words come out before I can stop them, raw and desperate. "I know you don't want to be saved. I know you think you're beyond saving. But I need to try."
"Gabriel—"
"I'll do anything." My voice breaks. I can hear how pathetic I sound. "I'll become anything. I'll be the man who pulls you out of this, even if you fight me every step of the way."
She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, steady, the color of earth after rain. She looks tired. She looks like she's been fighting for too long.
"I don't want to fight you, Gabriel." Her voice is soft. "I want to stop hurting you."
"You're not hurting me."
"I am. I know I am. Every time you look at me, I see the hope in your eyes. And I know I'm going to disappoint you."
"You could never disappoint me."
"Gabriel..." She shakes her head. "I'm already theirs. I've been theirs since the night I pulled that bullet from your father's side. I'm not going to get free."
"Then I'll get you free."
"You can't. You don't know how."
"Then teach me." I reach out and touch her face. My fingers are cold, trembling. "Let me hurt with you."
She looks at me. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying. She's past crying.
"Gabriel," she says. "You're the best part of this place. The only good part. And I'm going to ruin you."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't."
I kiss her.
She tastes like salt and sadness and something that might be hope. I'm not gentle—I can't be gentle, not anymore, not when I've been holding myself back for so long. I'm desperate, hungry, the kind of hungry that comes from wanting something you can't have.
She kisses me back. Her hands find my face, my neck, tangling in my hair. She pulls me closer, and I feel her body press against mine, and I want to take her right here, in the cold, in the dark, in the garden where no one can see.
But I don't. I take her hand instead. I lead her back to the greenhouse.
The greenhouse is warm.
The heating system hums softly, the grow lights casting a pale glow over the orchids. The air smells like earth and petals and the particular sweetness of things that are still alive.
I lay her down on the floor. The stones are cold beneath her back, but I don't care. I'll keep her warm. I'll keep her safe.
I undress her slowly. I take my time, pressing my lips to every inch of skin I reveal. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat. The soft curve of her breasts. She shivers beneath my touch, and I feel her body respond to mine.
"You're beautiful," I say. "You're so beautiful, Monika."
"Gabriel..."
"I love you." The words come out before I can stop them. "I know you don't want to hear it. I know you can't say it back. But I love you. I'm never going to stop."
She doesn't say it back. I didn't expect her to. But she reaches for me, pulls me down to her, and I feel her body open to mine.
I make love to her slowly. Gently. The way I wish I could love everything—patiently, without taking, without demanding. I hold her like she's something precious, something I've been afraid to break. And when I come, I say her name. Monika. Monika. Monika.
She holds me. She holds me and doesn't let go.
And for a moment, I pretend that's enough.
She falls asleep on my chest.
The orchids watch us in silence. The grow lights hum. The world outside the glass is dark and cold, but in here, it's just the two of us.
I stroke her hair. I trace the line of her spine. I memorize the weight of her against my body.
"I'm going to save you," I whisper. "I don't know how. I don't know when. But I'm going to save you."
She doesn't hear me. She's already dreaming.
And I'm already planning.
I stay with her all night.
When she wakes, the sun is rising over the garden. She looks up at me, her eyes still heavy with sleep, and she smiles. It's a small smile, tired at the edges. But it's real.
"Gabriel," she says.
"Monika."
She kisses me. Soft, tender, everything I don't deserve.
"Thank you," she says. "For staying."
"I'll always stay."
She sits up. She pulls on her clothes—my clothes, I realize, she's wearing my sweater again. She looks at me, her eyes steady.
"I have to go," she says. "Nathan will be looking for me."
"Nathan can wait."
"Nathan doesn't wait." She touches my face. "I'll come back. I promise."
I don't believe her. But I let her go.
I spend the rest of the morning in the greenhouse.
I think about my mother. About the way she used to sing to the orchids. About the way she looked at my father, the fear and love and desperation in her eyes.
I think about Monika. About the way she let me hold her. About the way she said my name like it meant something.
I think about the future. About medical school. About the life I could have if I left this place behind.
But I can't leave. I can't leave her here.
I can't leave her with them.
I'm still in the greenhouse when Nathan finds me.
He doesn't knock. He never knocks. He just walks in, his footsteps loud on the stone, his eyes sharp and assessing.
"Brother," he says. His voice is flat, dismissive. "Still hiding in the greenhouse?"
"I'm not hiding."
"Then what are you doing?"
I don't answer. I don't have to.
Nathan walks toward me. He stops in front of me, his eyes locked on mine.
"I know what you're trying to do," he says. "I know you're trying to save her."
"So?"
"So you're wasting your time. She's not going to leave. She's not going to choose you."
"Maybe not."
"She's mine, Gabriel." Nathan's voice is cold. "She's been mine since the day she walked into this house. You can pretend otherwise, but we both know the truth."
I feel something snap inside me.
"She's not yours," I say. "She's not anyone's. She's her own person."
"She's a Mire."
"She's a person, Nathan. And you're destroying her."
Nathan laughs. It's a hollow sound, brittle and sharp. "I'm not destroying her. I'm saving her. I'm giving her a place in this family. I'm giving her everything she's ever wanted."
"Everything she's ever wanted?" I stand, facing him. "You're not giving her anything. You're taking. That's all you know how to do."
"At least I'm doing something. You're just sitting here, in your little greenhouse, pretending you're better than the rest of us. You're not, Gabriel. You're just as broken. You're just as damaged. The only difference is that I'm not pretending."
He walks out. I stand there, surrounded by orchids, and feel the weight of his words settle on my shoulders.
He's wrong. He has to be wrong.
I'm not like him. I'm not like my father.
I'm going to save her.
I'm going to save her, even if it destroys me.
I find her in the library that afternoon.
She's reading again—that same veterinary textbook, her lips moving as she works through a difficult passage. She doesn't hear me come in. She's lost in the words, in the world she's trying to reclaim.
I watch her for a long moment. The slope of her shoulders. The way her hair falls across her face. The small furrow between her brows.
She's beautiful. She's everything.
"Monika."
She looks up. Her eyes meet mine.
"Gabriel. What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
She closes the book, setting it aside, and watches me with those beautiful brown eyes.
"About what?"
"About leaving."
She doesn't say anything at first.
She just looks at me, her expression unreadable. I feel the weight of her gaze like a physical force, pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe.
"Gabriel," she says finally. "We've had this conversation, many times."
"I know. I'm having it again."
"Gabriel..."
"I'm not giving up." I walk toward her. I stop in front of her chair. "I'm never giving up. I'm going to keep asking until you say yes. I'm going to keep fighting until you let me save you."
"Save me from what?"
"From them. From this house. From yourself."
She laughs. It's a broken sound, hollow and raw.
"From myself," she repeats. "You think I need saving from myself?"
"I know you do."
"How?"
"Because I know you, Monika. I know you're not happy here. I know you're trapped. I know you want to leave, even if you won't admit it."
"You don't know that."
"I do." I kneel in front of her. I take her hands in mine. "I know you're scared. I know you think you can't leave. But you can. We can. Together."
"Gabriel..."
"Please." My voice breaks. "Please let me save you."
She stares at me for a long moment. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying. She's past crying.
"I can't," she says. "I can't, Gabriel."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to be saved."
She pulls her hands away as she stands, and then she simply walks out of the room. Like I didn't just pour my heart out. Like I wouldn't give up the world for her.
I stay on my knees, surrounded by silence, and wonder how long I can keep fighting.
I don't go after her.
I don't know what I would say. I don't know if there's anything left to say.
I just sit there, in the empty library, and think about all the ways I've failed her.
She's right. I can't save her. I can't save anyone.
I can't even save myself.