Page 127 of The Wrong Man

I don’t answer right away. Just look at him, this person who shares my face but has never shared anything else. Who made my childhood a nightmare and then let me take the fall for his crimes.

“No,” I say finally. “I came to talk.”

“Talk?” He laughs, incredulous. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”

“Everything.” I pull up a chair and sit down across from him, close enough that he can’t look away. “Everything you did to me. Everything you made me believe about myself. I’m going to say it all, and you’re going to listen.”

“Dylan...”

“No.” My voice comes out harder than I expected. “You don’t get to interrupt. You don’t get to manipulate your way out of this. For once in your life, you’re going to shut up and hear what I have to say.”

Declan’s mouth snaps shut. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s the realization that for the first time, he has no power here. Either way, I’ll take it.

I start at the beginning.

“Do you remember the closet under the stairs?” I ask. “The one where you used to lock me in when Ma and Da weren’t home? I was six the first time. Six years old, and you told me there were monsters in the dark that would eat me if I made any noise.”

Declan’s expression flickers. He remembers.

“I used to have nightmares about that closet. For years. Even after I moved to London, I couldn’t sleep in complete darkness. Had to have a light on, like a child, because my own brother convinced me that monsters were real.”

I keep going. The times he stole my things and blamed me when they went missing. The way he twisted every situation to make me look like the liar, the troublemaker, the problem child. The carefully crafted campaign to turn our parents against me, dripping poison in their ears until they looked at me like I was a stranger in their home.

Such a perfectly executed campaign, that by the time adolescence hit and I realized I was gay, coming out was simply the final nail in the coffin.

“Remember when we were twelve, and you broke Da’s watch? The one his father gave him?” I ask. “You told them I did it. Told them you saw me throw it against the wall in a tantrum. And they believed you. They always believed you.”

Declan says nothing. Just watches me with those familiar eyes that hold no warmth.

“Da didn’t speak to me for two weeks after that. Two weeks of silence from my own father, because of a lie you told.” I shake my head. “And that was just one of dozens. Hundreds, maybe. Every time something went wrong, you made sure I took the blame.”

“And then the tiara,” I say. “You stole it, and when the consequences came calling, you let them take me instead. Your own twin brother. You left me to be tortured, and you didn’t care. You probably didn’t even think about it.”

“I didn’t know they’d...” Declan starts, and I cut him off.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare try to make excuses. You knew exactly what would happen to whoever they caught. You just didn’t care, because it wasn’t you.”

The words are pouring out now, years of hurt and anger that I’ve kept locked away because I was too afraid to feel it. Too convinced that I was the problem, that I deserved what happened to me, that Declan was right when he called me weak and worthless and wrong.

“You made me think I was broken,” I say, and my voice cracks slightly. “That there was something ‌wrong with me. That I was weak, pathetic, a disappointment. I carried that belief for years, Declan. It shaped everything about me. The way I saw myself, the relationships I couldn’t trust, the life I was too afraid to fully live.”

I lean forward, holding his gaze.

“But I’m not broken. I’m not weak. I’m not any of the things you told me I was. I survived everything you threw at me, and I built a life despite you. I have friends who love me, who came to rescue me even though it meant putting themselves in danger. I have work that matters to me, a bakery where people come every morning because my croissants make their day a little better. I have someone who sees me, really sees me, and thinks I’m worth fighting for.”

I think of Dante. Of the way he punched Declan without hesitation because he knew, he just knew, that it wasn’t me. Of the way he held me in that closet doorway like I was something precious. Of the way he’s waiting outside right now, ready to support whatever I need.

“I have a life worth living,” I say. “And you have nothing. That’s the difference between us.”

“Your Italian boyfriend,” Declan spits. “The one who tortured you. That’s your great love story? Stockholm syndrome with a mobster?”

I don’t flinch. A week ago, those words would have cut me open. Now they just seem sad.

“You don’t understand love,” I say quietly. “You’ve never understood it. That’s your tragedy, Declan. You’ve spent your whole life taking and using and betraying, and you’ve never once known what it feels like to have someone care about you. Really care. Not for what you can give them or what they can get from you, but just... for you.”

Something shifts in Declan’s face. Just for a moment, I see something that might be pain. Might be recognition.

Then it’s gone, replaced by the familiar sneer.