Clive Rowse, Wade's childhood buddy, was sprawled across the leather couch, arms draped over the backrest, watching Wade down one beer after another without saying a word. Then his mouth twisted into a smirk. When Wade still didn't speak, Clive leaned over and smacked his arm. "Alright, that's enough. If you get wasted, I'm not dragging your ass home. Not letting your old man chew me out again." "It's just beer. I'm fine," Wade muttered, finally setting the bottle down and leaning back. A cool breeze drifted in from the river as he tilted his head up, eyes tracing the night sky. Clive loosened his pink tie and threw a flirty wink at a woman walking past. Dressed to kill, slick hair, sharp suit, and the confidence to match—he looked every inch the charmer. The purple diamond in his ear caught the bar's low light, flashing just enough to make people look twice. But no one was looking at Clive. They were looking at Wade.And who could blame them? The Jensons were disgustingly good-looking—seven sons, each one blessed with Russell and Blair's perfect genes. Wade had chiseled cheekbones, a sharp nose, and lips that belonged on a magazine cover. Add the messy hair, and he looked like he'd walked straight off a photoshoot. "Every time we go out, I might as well be invisible," Clive grumbled. "No one even notices me." Wade closed his eyes, ignoring him. When Wade still didn't bite, Clive sighed. "I saw the news. Is that what's eating you? You worried about Kyla?" "That's part of it," Wade said, exhaling slowly. "The other part's Tilda. We accused her of leaking the story yesterday. She didn't do it. We screwed up. She said she’s done with us, packed her things, and left." Clive whistled low. "You guys thought she was the leak?" Wade didn't answer. That was answer enough. "Damn, talk about jumping the gun. Still…" Clive tilted his head. "Isn't this kinda... a win for you? Your long-lost sister's back, but she's getting in Kyla's way—and you've always been Team Kyla." Wade didn't deny it. “Yeah. Kyla's been with us since she was one. We grew up together. She's kind, thoughtful… I never felt anything for Tilda. Honestly, I used to think it'd be better if she never came back. It'd just hurt Kyla." "Then there you go," Clive said, raising his glass. "Tilda's gone, no strings attached. Time to celebrate. Cheers.” Celebrate? Yeah, maybe he should be happy. So why did watching her walk away feel so heavy? Why did his mom's failed attempt to stop her hit like a gut punch? Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe that blood tie you can't shake—because no matter how hard he tried to deny it, Tilda was still his sister. If she had leaked the story, Wade might've been glad she left. But when she actually did, it felt like they owed her something they could never repay. Earlier that day, at Orica University, Wade had done something he'd never done before—he'd gone asking around for her.No one had seen her. No one knew where she'd gone. Russell brushed it off, saying she'd come home once she cooled off. Told everyone to leave her be. Everyone except Blair—she was the only one who truly missed her. For the Jensons, Kyla had always been enough. The seven brothers felt the same. Then, out of nowhere, Wade froze. He'd just spotted someone familiar. "Tilda? Over here!" It was Una waving from the rooftop bar. Tilda walked toward her with an easy smile. She wore a crisp white blouse tucked into jeans, sneakers on her feet—no makeup, yet somehow she glowed. Her starlit eyes and soft features caught the light with every step. People turned to look. Even Wade couldn't look away. Was Tilda always this beautiful? He couldn't remember noticing.The first time she'd caught his attention was when he found out she was the sister they'd lost nineteen years ago. That first visit home had been a disaster—awkward, nervous, desperate to please. She'd made a terrible impression. To Wade, a Jenson carried themselves with pride. Compared to Kyla, Tilda had seemed… small. Weak. And he wasn't the only one who'd thought that. Afraid she'd threaten Kyla's place, none of them had been kind. But this Tilda—confident, glowing, and completely transformed—was almost unrecognizable. She moved like she owned the place, every step steady and sure. It was like the spotlight followed her. "Holy hell," Clive muttered. "Total knockout. Wade, even you can't look away—that's saying something." When she stepped onto the rooftop bar, Clive's jaw dropped. "That's Tilda," Wade said, sounding irritated. “What? No way. She looks nothing like her photos!"At first, Clive thought Wade was seeing things. But the longer he stared, the more his breath caught. It was her—same face, totally different vibe. Tilda didn't notice them. She went straight to Una. "Sorry I'm late," she said, smiling warmly. "You're not late at all—wait, Tilda… you look different." Una, soft and sweet in her white dress, had worried that cutting ties with the Jensons would break Tilda. But now… Tilda looked radiant. "I am different," Tilda said simply, her smile never fading. She'd finally seen the truth about family—and she was done pretending. "I was worried," Una admitted. "But you actually seem happier." "Cheers, Una. Let's celebrate my rebirth. No—let's call it escaping a miserable life." Tilda picked up Una's Bloody Mary, clinked glasses, and took a long sip. The icy spice jolted her awake.The wind brushed her face. City lights shimmered on the river. Her best friend beside her. She was alive. She was free. Life was good. Why waste it chasing something that was never hers? Her voice was soft—but Wade, from across the bar, heard every word. Something twisted in his chest—a storm of emotions he couldn't name. "Escaping a miserable life? Damn," Clive muttered. "Sounds like your family really messed her up." He looked away, awkward. It wasn't his place to say it. But still… most girls would've killed to be a Jenson. For Tilda to walk away willingly? That said everything. Wade didn't respond. He just lifted the bottle and downed the rest. Escaping a miserable life. Was that what leaving home meant for her?Was she really okay—or just pretending not to care? "Tilda, you don't have to be strong all the time," Una said gently. "I'm your best friend. If it ever gets too heavy, you can lean on me. My shoulder's right here." Una's chest ached. She knew how much Tilda had craved a family—how badly she'd wanted that warmth. When the Jensons came with the DNA results, she'd never seen Tilda so happy. She'd cried for days. Drunk one night, she'd clung to Una, whispering, "I finally have a family. A mom. A dad. Brothers. I'm not an orphan anymore." "Then let me borrow your shoulder," Tilda whispered, wrapping her arms around her. Eyes closed, she spoke from her heart. "I'm so lucky to have you, Una." Una's throat tightened. Tears burned her eyes. "Hey, don't cry. I'll always be here," she murmured, hugging her back. "Mhm." Tilda blinked away the sting—not because of the Jensons, but because she'd finally realized how foolish she'd been. In her last life, she'd given everything to people who never saw her worth. This time, she was done with that. The music shifted, bass thumping through the floor. "Una, I wanna dance." This time around, Tilda just wanted to live—freely, loudly, without caring what anyone thought. "I'll be right here, cheering you on," Una said, smiling. Tilda grinned, gave her a playful pat on the head, and stood. She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a sleek black vest that hugged her toned abs. Then she walked straight into the center of the dance floor. The beat dropped—and Tilda came alive. A total knockout. Every man's eyes snapped to her the moment she started moving. Whistles and cheers filled the air, but she didn't care. Eyes closed, she lost herself to the music—wild, unrestrained, electric. Every turn, every sway, pulsed with power and freedom. Wade stood frozen, staring like he'd never seen her before. He hadn't known Tilda could dance—let alone command a room like this. The energy she brought flooded the bar, electric and unstoppable. "Encore! Encore!" the crowd roared. Even Clive was on his feet, clapping like a fanboy. Meanwhile, up on the fourth floor of Nightingale Bar, in a private booth, a pair of sharp, hawk-like eyes tracked her every move—silent, focused, locked on the girl setting the dance floor on fire.