Chapter 297

Chapter 297
TAMARA
The drive was silent between us.
Not once did Tom speak—not after witnessing his mother die such a brutal death, not even as the city lights blurred past us like ghosts. And not once did I ask where he was taking me. There was no point. Knowing the destination wouldn’t save me.
My thoughts were elsewhere anyway.
I didn’t know how Isaiah was going to get to me this time—not with all those men who wanted him dead circling him like vultures. I didn’t know if he was hurt. I didn’t know if Maggie had made it to the hospital.
The silence was deafening, but it was also necessary. In it, I planned—how to survive, how to escape, how to rescue myself, how to stay alive long enough for Isaiah to find me—while praying he was still breathing, still fighting, still himself.
And that Maggie had made it to the hospital.

“It wasn’t always like this, you know.”
Tom’s voice cut through the quiet, rough and hoarse, like it had scraped its way out of his chest. I turned to look at him. The lines of his face were tight, drawn, carved by something deeper than grief. He looked broken—but not the kind that begged for pity.
If he thought I would feel remorse, then he had misjudged me.
“All I wanted,” he continued, swallowing hard, “was for Isaiah to recognize me as his brother.”
He let out a brittle smile before facing the road again, eyes fixed ahead like he was afraid to look anywhere else.
“He only had to call me his brother. Just once. And I wouldn’t have been so bitter.”
There was something disturbingly childlike in his voice then. Like a boy who had waited too long at the door for someone who never came. And for a split second—just a second—I understood him.
But understanding was not the same as agreeing.
And I never would.

“Why did you need Isaiah to acknowledge you so badly?” I asked. My throat burned; my voice came out weak, strained from earlier screams. Still, I forced the words out. “Whether he called you his brother or not doesn’t change the fact that Jonathan fathered you. That part was already done.”

Tom pressed his lips together and tilted his head. One hand tightened around the steering wheel. The other—the injured one, still bleeding—rested against the open window. I wondered briefly if he could even feel the pain anymore.
“You’re right, gorgeous girl,” he said lightly. “Beautiful and smart.”
He grinned, but there was no mischief in it. This smile was hollow..
“But you’re wrong about one thing.”
I frowned. He went on.
“Jonathan didn’t want me either.”
His voice sharpened, anger bleeding through the calm.
“It was a one-night indulgence between him and my mother. Nothing more. Then she turned up pregnant. She told him. He swore it wasn’t his. They took a test—it came back positive.” He let out a dry scoff. “All he did was throw a few dollars at her and tell her to disappear.”
My fingers curled slowly into my palm.
“Sixteen years later,” Tom continued, “I showed up at his doorstep. By then my mother was broke and sick—stomach cancer.”
So that was when it happened.
“We couldn’t afford treatment. So for the first time, she told me about my father. Said he was rich. Powerful. Said he would want to see me.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I believed her.”
He laughed once, without humor.
“I took the address. Used the last of my mother’s money to get there. But when I arrived, I found him and Isaiah arguing.”
My heart stuttered.
“I saw Isaiah first,” Tom said quietly. “Expensive clothes. A watch worth more than my life. A phone that probably cost what my mother made in a year. He looked around my age—but he was already… put together.”
He shook his head.
“They were fighting about some girl. Jonathan told him to stay away from her. Isaiah refused. Jonathan threatened to cut him off.” Tom glanced at me then, knowingly. “Isaiah didn’t look scared. And I couldn’t help but feel jealous, even at that age, he feared nothing. The only thing that seemed to matter was losing her.”
The girl. Me. My chest tightened.
“I waited until they were done,” Tom went on. “Isaiah stormed out. Jonathan stayed behind, furious. I almost left. Thought it was the wrong time. But Isaiah saw me.”
He swallowed.
“He walked toward me. Big, tall and Confident. While I was skinny, half-starved, shaking inside, but in that moment, I was excited at the idea of having a brother even if he didn’t know who I was.”
Tom’s grip tightened on the wheel.
“He asked me who I was. I opened my mouth to answer—but instead, he asked something else.”
His voice softened despite himself.
‘Have you eaten?’
I held my breath.
“I didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved. I said no.” Tom exhaled. “He nodded. Walked away. I followed him.”
He smiled faintly at the memory.
“He took me to an expensive restaurant. Bought me more food than I’d seen in months. Then he left. Didn’t say a word.”
Silence filled the car again.
“I packed the leftovers for my mother,” Tom said. “What was left could last us weeks. I was grateful. I was hopeful.”
His jaw hardened.
“So I went back. Hoping to catch Jonathan. But I didn’t.”
He inhaled sharply.
“I overheard his call. He had found my mother. After months of searching.” Tom’s voice dropped. “He ordered her killed. And the son she birthed to be buried alive.”

I didn’t have it in me to act shocked, Jonathan had being a vile human being, Isaiah wasn’t.
“Then the one you should hate,” I said calmly, “is Jonathan. Not Isaiah.”

Tom nodded slowly.
“Yes. That should have been the case.”
He laughed under his breath.
“But Isaiah stayed distant. Cold. And when I finally told him—after years of watching him, obsessing over him—that I was his brother…”
His eyes darkened.
“He looked at me like I was nothing. Blocked me. Cut me off. Until we met again in prison.”
He exhaled, bitter.
“By then, I was already broken. Already angry. But I still tried. I changed myself. I humbled myself.”
His voice turned sharp.
“And when he was forced to choose—between me and his people—he chose them.” He glanced at me. “And left his brother behind.”
“I spent two and a half more years inside after he walked free.”
Silence swallowed us again.

He turned to me slowly. “I’m sorry you had to be caught in the crossfire.”

The softness in his voice—real or feigned—I seized it.

“If you’re truly sorry,” I said quietly, and carefully, “you’ll drop me off here. Now. It’s not too late, Tom. Stop this. Call off the shot on Isaiah. Leave.” My voice trembled despite my effort. “I can talk to him. I can make him let you go.”

He stared at me.

Really stared.

For a moment, hope bloomed stupidly in my chest. My heart pounded so hard it hurt, every second stretching thin as glass.

Then he smiled.

That same empty, hollow smile.