Chapter 165
That was always him. Failure didn’t scare him. Not understanding why he failed. Then there was the summer I lost that academic competition and locked myself in my room for two days because I was convinced I embarrassed myself publicly. Alexander didn’t try to comfort me with speeches or fake encouragement. He just sat outside my door for hours, occasionally sliding snacks underneath like some weird silent support system until I finally opened it just to yell at him for being annoying.
“You weren’t failing,” he told me that day. “You were learning in front of people. That just feels worse.”
I hated how right he was.
“Lila.”
Dad’s voice snapped me back to the present.
“Hm?” I blinked.
“Your cousin just escaped,” he said, nodding toward the terrace doors.
I followed his gaze just in time to see Alexander slip outside, disappearing into the garden like he always did whenever the noise inside got too loud.
I waited a few minutes, pretending to listen to Grandma Serena telling Mom some story about a charity event mishap, before quietly setting my glass down and slipping away too.
The night air wrapped around me the moment I stepped outside, cool and calm, muffling the laughter and music still spilling through the house behind me. The yard lights cast soft golden pools across the grass, and it didn’t take long to spot him sitting on the low stone wall near the far corner of the garden, beer bottle resting loosely in his hand while he stared out toward the dark tree line.
“You always hide in the same spot,” I said, walking toward him.
He glanced up, unsurprised. “You always find it.”
“Family instinct,” I replied, climbing up beside him and raising the wine glass I had grabbed from a passing tray near the exit.
We sat in silence for a moment, comfortable and easy, watching the lights flicker across the yard while distant laughter floated through the open windows behind us.
“Are you okay?” I asked eventually.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “You?”
“Yeah,” I echoed.
Another quiet moment passed.
“You’re officially Thorne Group now,” I said, turning toward him slightly.
“Yeah,” he replied, taking a slow sip of his beer.
“And you’re not panicking?”
“I’ve been preparing for it my entire life,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “Still feels huge.”
“It is,” he admitted.
I smiled faintly, swirling my wine again.
“Next year it’ll be Quantum for me,” I said.
“You’ll run that place before they even realize what happened,” he replied casually.
“I plan to,” I said, and he chuckled under his breath.
We fell quiet again, the kind of silence filled with memories instead of awkwardness. I nudged his shoulder lightly.
“You remember the drone explosion?” I asked.
He groaned immediately. “You’re never letting that go.”
“You almost burned down Grandpa’s property.”
“You wired the battery wrong.” he said
“You told me to follow your instructions.”
“You misread them,” he retorted.
“You explained them badly,” I shot back.
He shook his head, laughing softly.
“We were disasters,” he admitted.
“We were kids,” I corrected.
He nodded slowly, staring out toward the yard again.
“We messed up a lot,” I added.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“But we figured it out,” I said.
“Together,” he replied quietly.
I lifted my glass slightly toward him in a silent toast, and he tapped his bottle gently against it.
“To surviving childhood,” I said.
“To not destroy any companies,” he replied.
“Yet,” I teased.
He rolled his eyes, but that rare smile pulled at his lips again as he leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky.
“I’m proud of you,” he said suddenly.
I blinked, turning toward him.
“You don’t say that often,” I replied.
“I don’t need to,” he said calmly. “You already know.”
“Still nice hearing it,” I admitted.
He nodded once.
“I’m proud of you too,” I added. “You’re going to be incredible at Thorne.”
He didn’t respond immediately, but I saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the quiet acceptance of the compliment even if he didn’t openly react to it.
We stayed there longer than we meant to, finishing our drinks slowly while sharing random memories, stupid childhood arguments, and moments that felt catastrophic back then but now felt like stepping stones that shaped who we had become.
Eventually the music inside got louder again, someone probably noticing we were missing, but neither of us rushed to move.
“You think things are going to change?” I asked quietly.
“Everything will,” he said honestly. “But not this.”
I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant without needing him to explain further.
Careers would grow. Responsibilities would pile up. Life would get louder and faster and heavier. But this bond built from scraped knees, shared punishments, whispered planning sessions, and silent emotional backup systems… that wasn’t something distance or adulthood could easily break.
“Good,” I said softly.
We stayed there a little longer, two cousins sitting in the quiet corner of the yard, holding onto a moment that felt like the closing of one chapter and the beginning of another, neither of us rushing to leave because sometimes moving forward felt easier when you paused long enough to appreciate how far you had already come.
Angie
I had imagined this day more times than I wanted to admit, usually late at night when the house finally went quiet and the world slowed down enough for thoughts to catch up with me. In those quiet moments, I used to picture Lila standing on a stage somewhere, confident and graceful, stepping into her future with that same stubborn determination she inherited from both Lucas and me. I just never imagined the moment would arrive this quickly or that it would hit this hard.
The ceremony hall buzzed with proud families, cameras flashing, faculty members adjusting microphones, and graduates shifting nervously in their seats while trying to maintain that composed, adult image they had spent years building. The air carried that familiar mixture of excitement and bittersweet tension that always followed milestones like this. I sat beside Lucas, fingers laced together in my lap, trying to stay composed while my heart kept swelling in my chest every time I spotted Lila among the graduates.
She looked breathtaking.
Not just because of the graduation gown or the careful way she styled her hair, though both were flawless. It was the confidence in her posture, the calm focus in her eyes as she listened to the speakers, and the quiet authority she carried without even realizing it. She had grown into herself in ways that made me both incredibly proud and slightly emotional, the kind of emotional I refused to show publicly because Lucas would tease me about it for the next ten years.
“You’re crying already,” Lucas murmured beside me without even looking.
“I’m not,” I whispered, blinking quickly.
“You’ve blinked five times in three seconds,” he replied calmly.
“I have allergies,” I insisted.
Lucas chuckled under his breath, squeezing my hand gently before shifting his attention toward the stage again.