Chapter 4 Just a Photograph

In Austin's mind, we were family, which meant I was supposed to compromise, be understanding, and protect an outsider from embarrassment.

He made it sound as though every uncomfortable feeling I'd had to endure that afternoon came down to one simple flaw—I simply wasn't generous enough.

I studied his flawless face and suddenly realized that our three years together were like the wind sweeping across the balcony. Those loving moments were there for a brief time, then gone the next without leaving anything behind.

I took a step back, ready to speak.

A sharp crash erupted from the living room, followed by a woman's startled scream.

I spun around, shoved open the glass door, and hurried inside.

The area in front of the display cabinet was a wreck.

My mother had placed a family portrait there earlier that day. She had gone out of her way to find the retired photographer who had taken our pictures for years and ordered a custom solid-wood frame for it.

Now, it lay shattered on the floor.

The frame had broken apart, and shards of glass were scattered across the carpet. Two jagged pieces had cut directly across my parents' faces in the photograph.

Wren stood several feet away with both hands over her mouth. Her face had gone pale, and tears were already gathering in her eyes.

My mother sat on the sofa closest to the cabinet, staring at the broken glass with a deep frown. She hadn't been struck. But at the sight of this, her brows knitted tightly.

Austin rushed past me before I could even move.

He didn't look at my mother or the ruined photograph.

Instead, he went straight to Wren, grabbed her arm, and pulled her away from the glass. "Are you hurt?"

The concern in his voice was immediate and unmistakable. He held both her hands, checking her arms and wrists as though nothing else in the room mattered.

Wren shook her head as tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Austin, I didn't mean to do it." Her words came out between uneven breaths. "I saw some dust on the vase and thought I should wipe it off, but it was heavier than I expected. My hand slipped, then..."

She glanced anxiously toward me. "Is Lily going to be angry? That vase looked really expensive."

Austin visibly relaxed.

Only then did he turn toward the mess on the floor. His gaze passed over the shattered frame before briefly settling on my mother.

A slight crease appeared between his brows, but it disappeared almost at once.

"It's just a photograph," he said. "We can have another one printed tomorrow and replace the frame."

Then, he turned back to Wren. "The important thing is that you're okay."

The living room fell completely silent. No relatives dared to speak as all eyes gradually turned to me.

I stood where I was, watching Austin. I watched as his hand held protectively on Wren's arm and took in the calm certainty on his face, which told me that he genuinely thought that he had handled everything exactly as he should have.

The photograph could be reprinted, and the frame could be replaced. To him, none of it mattered as much as making sure Wren wasn't upset.

And just like that, I understood.

Her brief fright mattered more than the family portrait I treasured. It was certainly worth more than the sight of my parents' faces slashed beneath broken glass.

Austin's priorities had never been clearer.

I said nothing.

However, something inside me simply went quiet.

For three years, I had defended him without even realizing it. I'd brushed off every careless remark, excused every disappointment he caused me, and even convinced myself he hadn't meant to hurt me.

This time, I refused to look for an excuse.

There was nothing left to explain.

My fingers slowly loosened from the fabric of my dress. Then, I walked past Austin and toward the shattered frame.

I didn't raise my voice or demand an explanation. I simply crouched, pushed aside the larger pieces of glass, and lifted the damaged photograph from the floor.

"Lily, don't do this." Austin frowned and reached for me. "I already said I'll have another one printed tomorrow."

Before he could touch me, a warm, steady hand settled on my shoulder.

It was my father.

He helped me to my feet, gently took the torn photograph from my hands, and placed it on the table beside us.

"There's no need for that," he said calmly.