The Nightingale Will Not Sing at Dawn

Awakening from a nightmare deep in the night, I found myself slick with cold sweat.

Beside me, Kenneth slept soundly, the steady rhythm of his breathing filling the quiet room.

I slipped out of bed, moving toward the living room for a glass of water.

Just as I reached the bedroom door, a hushed, deliberately lowered voice drifted through the crack of the partially open balcony door.

Kenneth’s voice.

My feet froze.

“…Don’t worry, it was handled cleanly. The guy took the money and vanished from Ashford.”

“Brooklyn? She’s terrified out of her mind—won’t say a word. I told the guy to take all the blame, to threaten her that if she dared go to the police, he’d come after me. She’s obsessed with me. There’s no way she’d let anything happen to me.”

“Hah, tainted? That’s exactly the point. A woman who’s been soiled—who else would want her after this? No one but me. And the Brooklyn family heirloom will have to be handed over to me, nice and obedient.”

“I’m taking her to get the marriage license tomorrow. Once I have the box, I’ll deliver it straight to you.”

“Mila, be patient. Once your wedding gift is secured, we’ll celebrate properly…”

I couldn’t make out another word.

My mind went blank. All I heard was the thunderous pounding of my own heart, the roar of blood rushing in my ears.

He could see.

That assault was his own doing.

All his so-called devotion, the light he supposedly gave up for me—it was all an elaborately staged lie.

That man hadn’t been threatening me; he’d been carrying out Kenneth’s orders.

Fear of something happening to him? He was the mastermind.

My blood ran cold, icing over in my veins. My hands and feet went numb.

I wanted to scream, to rush out and tear that hypocritical mask from his face, but I didn’t even have the strength to move a finger.

Leaning back against the cold wall, I slowly slid down to the floor.

Nineteen years.

I’d known Kenneth for nineteen years.

Playing in the mud together in diapers, and later, when he became the most notorious troublemaker in all of Ashford’s social circles, I was the only little shadow trailing behind him.

When he got into gang fights, I passed him the brick.

When his father chased him down to beat him, I hid him in my family’s attic.

Everyone wondered how an old academic family like the Mus could raise such a wild child, always following Kenneth around.

But they didn’t know—when my parents died unexpectedly in that archaeological accident and the whole world seemed to abandon me, Kenneth stayed by my side. “Brook, don’t be scared,” he said. “From now on, I’m your family.”

Three years ago, to save me from a group of thugs, he injured his eyes. His world plunged into darkness.

Consumed by guilt, I swore I would take care of him for the rest of my life.

He told me, “Silly girl, I saved you willingly. Marrying you is a win for me.”

I believed him.

I believed all his sweet nothings, trusted in the love that made him risk everything for me.

I drowned in the deep affection he wove around me, willingly offering up everything I had—including the one tangible memory my parents left me, the Brooklyn family’s heirloom passed down through generations: that jade heirloom box.

According to ancestral tradition, the heirloom box could only be handed to my legal spouse on the very day we registered our marriage.

That’s why he was in such a hurry to get the license.

That’s why he engineered that brutal assault.

Just to make me ‘tainted,’ to make me cling to him desperately, and then, to hand over the heirloom box willingly… so he could give it to another woman.

Mila.

Our mutual childhood friend, his idealized first love.

That girl who always wore white dresses, whose smile seemed gentle and harmless.

So she was the one he truly wanted to marry.

And me? I was just a tool he used to seize the treasure, a stepping stone to be discarded once it had served its purpose.

Grief and rage, violent and overwhelming, engulfed me, stealing my breath.

The balcony door slid open. Kenneth’s footsteps approached.

I snapped my eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness.

“Brook?”

He walked over and gave me a gentle shake, his voice holding a trace of barely perceptible tension.

I could feel his gaze on me, sharp as a scalpel, sweeping over my face, assessing whether I was truly out or faking it.

After a few seconds, he must have decided I was genuinely passed out. Scooping me up with feigned urgency, he carried me swiftly back to the bedroom.

His movements were steady, without a hint of groping or hesitation.

How could a man blind for three years navigate a dark room with such familiarity?

As he laid me on the soft bed, I caught a faint, unfamiliar whiff of women’s perfume on him.

Mila’s favorite scent.

So tonight… he’d just come from seeing her.

My heart died completely.

Lying in the dark, I stared wide-eyed, sleepless through the rest of the night.

As dawn began to lighten the sky, I picked up my phone, scrolled to a number I hadn’t contacted in ages, and sent a single message:

—*Louis, I’m in trouble. Can you help me?*