A small bag of ginger candy for my nausea and a personal pack of tissues.

“We’ll leave shortly,” Nicholas said. “But we’re only staying at the art gallery for a few minutes.”

I timidly sucked on a candy. Ginger wasn’t my favorite, but it did soothe my roiling stomach.

“We have to be there for the unveiling.” I held Nicholas’s gaze. The amber sharpness was the only feature he didn’t inherit from Darius. “The artist was best friends with Josiah and Mike. They commissioned the painting right before the accident. I never imagined Atlas would finish it, not after…”

“I understand.”

Of course he did, and that made it worse. I couldn’t think of my brothers without imagining the terrible video footage Darius forced me to watch. I’d rather a hundred nights of what he did over witnessing another second of their deaths.

I hid in a shawl as best I could. It didn’t work. Reed hooted the instant I rounded the corner. I squirmed under the attention, but pretended he flattered me. Neither Reed nor Max wore jackets, but they rocked the slacks and vests, clinging perfectly to Max’s bulging muscles and Reed’s leaner build. We burst back into the public eye in style, which is what I wanted. A unified front.

We took a private plane to Cherrywood Valley, and a limo delivered us past the acres of my cornfields. My step-brothers offered as many tissues as I needed, but I would never weep over my farm, not when it was still undeniably in my possession.

The limo pulled to the curb outside the retro-styled, remodeled factory-turned-art gallery. The artist in question, the famed Atlas Chase, preferred his art displayed in a…more rustic neighborhood. I doubted the warehouse workers or the bikers in the nefarious bar, Pixie, cared for his modern art. But Atlas never feared the darker parts of society.

He once told me if it could be painted, it had value. Even a shadow, a splash of blood, a bruise…

A grave had the most value of all.

He had designed Josiah and Mike’s headstones.

Nicholas offered his hand to emerge from the limo, but I couldn’t. I needed a moment. A second. A minute. It was the first time I’d appear in public since the attack, and if the simmering agoraphobia wasn’t bad enough, now my thoughts rolled with memories of my brothers.

They gave me all the time I needed.

“—Josiah and Mike tell me to watch in case Dad comes home. And I’m four, I have no idea what they’re doing in his liquor cabinet.” I abandoned my dinner to tell the story. My step-brothers continued to eat. “They grab his Macallan bottle and poured it into a half empty two-liter of Dr. Pepper.”

“Classy,” Reed said.

“I know, right? But then they start fighting, and they didn’t watch me. I liked soda, but Mom never let me have any. Said it’d rot my brain.” The irony was not lost on me. “I start chugging this bottle not realizing what’s in it. Mike catches me, but it’s too late. I am now a drunk, four-year old asthmatic, wobbling around the house just before my family hosted Senator Ruby for dinner.” I hummed. “Don’t remember much else, but it was the only time I’ve been drunk. Dad was m-a-d.”

Dad was always mad, but the memory warmed me. I pushed the mashed potatoes around my plate and admitted what wasn’t really a secret.

“I miss my brothers.”

Nicholas nodded. Max left the table without a word.

“You guys never got into trouble like that?” I asked.

Reed exhaled. “We had that dangerous streak beaten out of us. We wouldn’t have gotten a little sister drunk.” He elbowed me. “Apparently, we fuck our sisters instead.”

“Fantastic.”

An aggravated shout insulted the Bennetts.

I groaned as the dark-haired troublemaker in black wagged a finger at the limo. Atlas wasn’t as large as Max, but he was more agile than Reed, and his confidence erupted from raw talent instead of Nicholas’s accumulated power. Every part of him appeared chiseled under the most talented artist’s hand—which was probably his. He was as handsome now as I remembered him when I was little.

“Oh, no.” Atlas spoke through a grin, but his words might have crumbled the gallery into dust. “Private party, gentlemen. You aren’t invited here.”

Nicholas offered to shake his hand. Atlas slapped it away.

“I don’t want any Bennett slime dripping over my art.”

Max snorted. “Out of our fucking way, Picasso.”

“Not a chance. You aren’t welcome here.”

Oh, Christ. Another Atwood/Bennett turf war in the middle of the street. Not the best publicity as more limos pulled along the curb. I slipped from the backseat before I could untangle my shawl, but I prevented Max from planting his good leg and earning a misdemeanor.

“Atlas, they’re with me.”

He didn’t recognize me at first, at least, not surrounded by Bennetts.

His jaw dropped. “Sprout?”

Max swore as Atlas swung me in his arms for a hug—exactly the type he used to give me when I was still pint-sized and begging to watch movies with my older brothers and their friends. Hell, Atlas was like a third big brother. Even called me by my nickname, despite the frown tugging on Nicholas’s lips.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

“Sorry I didn’t RSVP. I’ve been traveling a bit.”

“You are always welcome, Sarah.” Atlas eyed my entourage. “What’s with your…friends?”

“Long story. But it’s okay.”

He wrapped an arm over my shoulders, guiding me away from my step-brothers and into the gallery. “I have your brothers’ painting.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Good. They’d be happy.”

The silence dropped between us like it had at their funerals, when it hurt too much to even breathe. He held me close.

“Not the same without them.”

I nodded, refusing to cry.

Atlas offered me a tour through his sleek exhibit. He utilized every quirky space within the factory. Abstract paintings hung on the stairs, leading to a loft above and the open floor below. The murals featured spotlights which lit and shadowed the canvas with as much care as Atlas took to splash the paint. This I expected.

What surprised me was the string quartet, led by a blonde violinist rocking a modernized, dub-step rendition of Bach. Waiters in tails serving hors d’oeuvres passed between formally dressed socialites.

Atlas offered me a glass of champagne, and I wasn’t sure how to refuse without questions.

“You hate all this fancy, pretentious stuff,” I whispered. “Said us elites never understood your work.”

“I do hate it.” He winked and gestured over his posh guests. “But you all love me.”

He frowned as a woman in a headset waved to him. He downed the champagne.

“Looks like I have a sale. Go see the painting, Sprout. I have it in the far corner.” A crease formed in his forehead. He looked away. “Didn’t want everyone gawking at it.”

He offered only a half-hearted nod to my step-brothers. The gallery applauded as he crossed the floor to greet an older man enamored by a soft painting of a nude woman tangled in flowing silk.

“He’s…friendly,” Reed said.

I pretended to be interested in my champagne. “He’s loyal to my family. He was best friends with my brothers, and he understood exactly how much trouble Darius caused the farm.”

“He has a particular style.” Nicholas admired a painted image of a naked woman captured and struggling within bands of light. “It’s a theme, apparently.”

Max pointed to his favorite—a darker canvas featuring a woman completely restrained in ropes. “I like it.”

I was certain all of my step-brothers enjoyed these particular desires. I flushed.

“Just his style. Everything is sensual with Atlas.” I bit my lip, glancing over the gallery. “I used to have such a crush on him when I was younger.”

Reed rolled his eyes. “So that’s why we’re here. Better learn how to sketch, Nick.”