Later, unable to resist Gwen's insistence, I agreed to live off-campus.

She'd stay with me when she visited.

During those four years, anyone who showed me kindness was subtly blocked by her for various reasons.

She'd also ask jealously if I had anyone I liked.

I smiled bitterly inside. After the torment of my past life, I'd long lost hope for love.

Those vile memories made me feel unworthy of pure affection.

But I never told Gwen that. To her, I was just her introverted, bookish little brother who preferred staying home and writing.

Writing was where my real talent lay.

In my past life, the Chambers had forced me into directing—which I excelled at, sure. But my true gift was storytelling. I could build worlds from nothing, create characters so real they'd haunt you.

In this life, freed from the Chambers' iron leash, I poured everything into screenwriting.

By my sophomore year, I'd quietly submitted a script to Gray Pictures—Gwen's company—under a pseudonym.

Gwen read it. Then read it again. Then called an emergency meeting at two in the morning.

"Find this writer," she told her team. "I don't care what it costs."

The irony was delicious. She spent two weeks hunting for her own brother.

When I finally revealed myself, her expression cycled through shock, fury, pride, and something dangerously possessive in about three seconds.

"You wrote this? You? My little Leo?"

"Surprise?"

She grabbed my collar and pulled me close. Her eyes burned. "You will never submit scripts to anyone else. Ever. You're mine."

Classic Gwen.

I agreed—partly because she was terrifying, partly because I genuinely didn't want anyone else to have my work.

We settled into a rhythm. I wrote. She produced. Every film was a hit.

Meanwhile, Kyle's acting career was taking off under the Chambers' management. He appeared in commercials, minor film roles, even a supporting part in a trending drama.

On the surface, he was living his dream.

But I noticed the details. The way he always wore long sleeves, even in summer. The flinch when someone raised their voice. The empty, hollow smile he wore at press events.

The Chambers were collecting on their investment.

At graduation, Gwen picked me up personally—in a convoy of three cars, flanked by bodyguards, wearing sunglasses like a mob boss.

My classmates stared.

"Is that your sister or your mafia handler?" my roommate whispered.

"Both," I said honestly.