Chapter 517: The Little Man

Victoria lay sprawled across the massive bed in her designated room at the safehouse mansion, a remote fortress where even the wind seemed to tiptoe around like it was scared of getting caught.

She had no clue what the exact location, and honestly? She didn’t give a damn.

The walls were thick enough to swallow secrets, the security invisible but ironclad, and for the first time in days the suffocating Maxton shadows felt far enough away that she could finally breathe without tasting ash and fear on every inhale.

Her sisters were just next door. Sienna was probably glued to her phone like it was her

lifeline,

scrolling through whatever distraction the universe offered.

Delilah was most likely sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes unfocused, quietly running those terrifyingly efficient mental diagnostics on the trauma surrounding the twin sister she’d never even met... silent...

heartbreaking

in its precision.

It was all so damn

sad.

Victoria could already picture herself one day

ripping Harold’s throat out

with her bare hands and then going back for his cold,

rotten heart

just for good measure.

She pressed the phone tighter against her ear, cheek warming the screen, heart hammering a little too loudly for comfort.

"I hate to say this,"

she started, her voice already cracking at the edges like thin ice under too much weight.

Nastya’s voice flowed through the line—warm, steady, like she’d been sitting there waiting for this exact call all night.

"Then don’t say it. Just feel it."

"That’s not—shut up, let me talk."

"Talking."

Victoria let out a long, shaky exhale and it hurt on the way out, dragging old pain along with it.

"

Our aunt

showing up—that absolute nightmare of a woman—barging in and shattering everything right when we’d finally escaped the Maxton Mansion and found a sliver of peace... it was awful. Obviously. We were all shaking like leaves.

But—"

She paused. The memory slammed into her fresh and brutal: Cassiopeia’s voice cutting through the room like a razor-sharp blade, the air turning thick and freezing, and then Phei stepping in front of her without a single second of hesitation.

Those fearless and protective presence

blocking

the worst of the

storm,

shielding her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"But it brought me

closer

to Phei."

Nastya stayed perfectly quiet and just listened.

"When everything went to hell and Cassiopeia appeared like a walking disaster, Phei was right there. When he escorted us to the car...he pulled me into a hug when I was literally

trembling,

Nastya.

"Held me tight like I was something worth protecting. Like I mattered. His arms were so warm, so steady, and I could finally breathe again. Then he helped me into the car—his hands on my arm, my back... there was this genuine warmth in him. For me. Through all the fear and the running and the chaos, I felt it.

"He actually

cared

whether I was okay."

Nastya let the silence sit for a beat, then spoke softer.

"I’m happy for you, V. Really happy."

"Don’t get all mushy on me now."

"I’m serious,"

Nastya replied, gentle but firm. "You sound like a girl who’s finally ready make the boy she’s been absolutely garbage to for years like he’s disposable."

The words landed like a soft slap—right where it hurt the most.

Victoria flinched hard, fingers twisting into the blanket until her knuckles turned white.

"Although,"

she admitted quietly, voice dropping as she yanked at a loose thread until it snapped, "it took me until the last two months to realize what a massive bitch I’d been to him.

"Years,

Nastya. Literal years of treating him like he was beneath me. Beneath all of us. Like he was just the help. The charity case. The kid who never belonged. And he just... took it. Over and over. Every single time. I still don’t know how he didn’t snap sooner. I don’t know why he never ended doing something bad to me."

After all, Phei was a boy... if he wanted, he could’ve done something to her because he was stronger than she was even then.

But he never even rose a hand to do anything to her.

She swallowed hard, throat tight, eyes burning with unshed tears.

"I keep

replaying

every cruel moment. And now... now I can’t stop seeing his face when he held me. Like none of that shit mattered anymore. Like he still cared enough to keep me safe."

The guilt sat heavy in her chest—thick, choking, the kind that made her want to curl into a ball and vanish.

"I hope it’s not too late."

"Apologies are

never

too late, Victoria."

"That’s easy for you to say when you’re not the one who has to look him in the eye and admit you spent years making sure he felt like nothing."

"It’s still true,"

Nastya said, her voice shifting—steadier now, carrying a weight no seventeen-year-old should ever have to hold.

"Especially with family. The people who

hurt

us the most

are usually the ones

closest to us.

And

usually

the

ones closest to us

are the only ones whose

apologies actually

mean something.

"You think he doesn’t know how much it

costs

you to swallow your pride and admit you were wrong? A boy who’s survived that house for ten years understands exactly what real pride tastes like when you have to choke it down whole."

Victoria blinked rapidly. Hot tears pricked at her eyes—she swiped them away in guilt and regrets with the back of her hand.

"He’ll hear you,"

Nastya continued softly. "He’ll hear you because

you’re family

. And real family doesn’t put an expiration date on forgiveness. Not the kind that counts."

"When did you turn into a damn

therapist?"

Victoria muttered, a weak smile tugging at her lips.

"I’ve always been this wise. You just never listened before."

"Bullshit."

"Complete bullshit,"

Nastya agreed cheerfully. "But the advice is still solid."

Victoria let out a short, wet laugh—the kind that came from someone crying a little and stubbornly refusing to admit it.

She wiped her eyes again, sniffed once, and straightened her spine against the headboard like sheer posture could shove the guilt back down where it belonged.

"By the way... our

plan—still

in motion,

right?"

The shift in Nastya’s tone was instant. The wise therapist disappeared. The fierce, bright girl roared back to life—buzzing with something that danced dangerously close to obsession, yet still so achingly young and certain.

"Oh,

absolutely

."

"You’re still holding to it?"

"I will never give myself to anyone but him." Clean. Certain. Zero hesitation. "Although—that was my

five-year-old

brain

talking.

I know that now.

I was five then

. I barely understood what I was proposing."

A beat.

"But I still hold that promise sacred."

Victoria laughed—real this time, bright and genuine, the laugh of someone who’d heard this story enough times to find it both completely ridiculous and heartbreakingly beautiful.

"I still can’t believe you made tiny Phei say that."

Nastya squealed—high-pitched, delighted, pure unfiltered teenage glee exploding through the phone.

"He was SO CUTE, Victoria!

You don’t understand!"

She was practically vibrating. "Those wide purple eyes—completely round, just staring at me in total shock! This girl two years older than him standing there, telling him he was so cute and that he was going to be her little man from now on."

"Her little man."

"MY LITTLE MAN!"

Nastya corrected with another delighted squeal. "And he just... his mouth

fell open

and nothing came out for like five whole seconds! Then his face went

beet red

and he nodded like his life depended on it. I almost died right there, Victoria. I almost died! Three years old and he already had the power to destroy women and he didn’t even know it yet."

Victoria was laughing so hard her ribs actually ached, the kind of deep, belly-shaking laugh that left her gasping for air and clutching the blanket like it was the only thing keeping her from rolling off the bed.

The image was pure comedy gold:

tiny three-year-old Phei, those big wide eyes practically swallowing his whole face, cheeks blazing red like overripe tomatoes, standing there completely helpless while a slightly older girl with flowers in her hair declared him

her little man

with the absolute authority of a tiny empress

.

He’d looked like someone had just handed him a prize he wasn’t sure he wanted, but he was too polite, too

terrified

of her

(and too stunned)

to say no.

The shaky old video Nastya had shown her was still

burned

fresh into Victoria’s brain.

Shot on some ancient kid’s phone with unsteady little hands, it captured a small boy with messy dark hair and eyes too big for his face, standing in a sunlit garden, getting formally

"claimed"

like he was signing a lifelong contract he didn’t understand.

His expression? Pure, unfiltered panic wrapped in the most adorable politeness imaginable.

"Does he still remember?" Victoria asked, her voice dropping quieter now as the laughter finally started to fade.

"

Fuck no

, he doesn’t," Nastya shot back, flat and completely certain. With certainty that came from years of watching his eyes for even the tiniest flicker of

recognition

and finding absolutely nothing.

"If he remembered, he would’ve

claimed

me already. That boy doesn’t leave promises sitting on the table unfinished. But he doesn’t know. Doesn’t have a single clue."

Victoria paused, pulling the blanket up to her chin like it could shield her from the weight of the conversation.

"I heard my mom on the phone once,"

she said, even softer now. "Talking about

Phei.

She said

he’d lost most of his memories

from when he was really young

—after

some incident

when he was so you. But she never explained what that incident was. And then even

more

disappeared

after the trauma of watching his parents

burn

in that car."