All these years, my scripts were released through her company.

Each one was a box office phenomenon, making me the industry's most mysterious writer.

No one knew the stories came from me, only that Gray Pictures had a genius writer.

I enjoyed the quiet life, writing scripts at home, spending time with my Gwen.

Sometimes, if she was busy, I'd visit her at the office.

Watching her focused in meetings, commanding rooms full of industry executives with a glance—it reminded me why I'd chosen this life.

The film with Kyle premiered three months later.

"Fractured Mirror"—the story of twin brothers, one golden, one broken, both trapped by the families that claimed them.

I'd written it as catharsis. I didn't expect it to become a cultural phenomenon.

Kyle's performance earned a Best Actor nomination. The critics raved about his "raw vulnerability" and "haunting authenticity."

He didn't thank the Chambers in his acceptance speech.

Instead, standing at the podium, tears streaming, he said: "I want to thank my brother. He saw me when no one else did. He gave me a mirror, and for the first time, I didn't look away."

Backstage, we stood face to face.

"I still hate you," he said.

"I know."

"But I also—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Thank you."

I handed him a business card. "Gwen's legal team. When you're ready to leave the Chambers, call this number."

He stared at the card like it was a lifeline.

"They'll destroy me," he whispered. "They have contracts, recordings, leverage—"

"And Gwen has better lawyers, deeper pockets, and a personal vendetta against anyone who hurts people I care about."

"You care about me?"

"You're my brother. You killed me once, and I'm still standing here offering you a way out. What do you think?"

He clutched the card until it crumpled.

Three weeks later, he made the call.

Gwen dismantled the Chambers' empire in six months. Forensic accountants, whistleblower testimonies, sealed records pried open by court order.

The Chambers were convicted on seventeen counts. Child exploitation. Financial fraud. Coercion.

On the day of the verdict, Kyle showed up at our door.

Gwen opened it, looked him up and down, and said, "You look terrible. Come in. I made soup."

Kyle blinked. "You... cook?"

"She doesn't," I called from the kitchen. "I cooked. She's taking credit."

Gwen shot me a look that could curdle milk, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

Kyle sat at our table, ate the soup, and cried without making a sound.

That night, I found Gwen on the balcony, staring at the city lights.

"You're keeping him, aren't you?" she said.

"He's family."

"He tried to kill you."

"In another life."

She turned to me, eyes fierce. "If he so much as—"

"Then you can do your worst. But give him a chance first."

Gwen sighed—a rare sound of surrender.

"Fine. But he sleeps in the guest room. And he does the dishes."

I laughed. For the first time in two lifetimes, I felt whole.

The Yandere, the broken brother, and the boy who'd been reborn just to learn what family really meant.

It wasn't perfect. But it was ours.