“You’ve done well,” she said with a faint smile, before adding, “But Stefan has nothing. You should give him a house like this. He’s your brother.”
Marcus froze, then laughed — not out of humor, but disbelief. “You want me to give him a house? You threw me into the street when I was seventeen. You didn’t care where I slept or if I ate. And now you think I owe something to either of you?”
“Blood is blood,” Stefan muttered, his voice thick with resentment.
Marcus’s tone turned to ice. “No. Blood is obligation only when love exists. You made sure there was none.”
Irina’s face hardened. “Don’t speak to your mother that way,” she snapped, rising too quickly and stumbling against the chair. She caught herself, trembling. For a moment, Marcus almost pitied her—but only for a moment. He stopped Amalia from helping her up.
Irina stood there, flushed and humiliated, as the reality sank in: the son she had cast aside had grown into a man beyond her reach.
