TO LATE TO BEG, SISTER

"You have three months left to live at most, Julian."

The words of the specialist at the Royal London Hospital kept looping in his head. A light drizzle fell over the upscale neighborhood of Mayfair, London, as he walked down the sidewalk toward the grand Vance family estate.

Inside the pocket of his plastic raincoat, his fingers tightly gripped a stiff brown envelope containing the medical records that delivered his diagnosis: stage four brain cancer.

Halfway across the pavement his vision went thin at the edges, and he stopped until it came back. When it did, there was blood on his upper lip, a thin warm line. He wiped it with his thumb, on the side of his coat, and looked up at the house. Not here. Not tonight.

He pushed open the heavy front door and went to step inside.

"Julian! Where have you been?!"

A middle-aged woman in a maid's uniform—the head housekeeper of the Vance estate—suddenly emerged from the kitchen, looking impatient. Hands on her hips, she glared at Julian demandingly.

"The young ladies are coming home today!" she snapped harshly. "Why are you just getting back? Get to the kitchen and prepare dinner, now!"

Julian swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Alright..." Without a word of complaint, he hung up his raincoat and hurried to the kitchen.

For two grueling hours, with his tumor making his head feel like it was being struck by a sledgehammer, Julian prepared his adoptive sisters' favorite dishes. He cooked the way he always cooked. Victoria's steak a minute underdone, because she liked it bleeding and would never say so. Karen's soup with half the cream, because her own medical charts said so and she never read them. Siska's pie was cut into squares, not wedges, because wedges were for tourists. Ten years of small attention, and his hands still did them on their own.

By the time the food was served on the grand mahogany dining table, Victoria, Karen, and Siska were already seated. Yet, at that massive table, there were only chairs for them; no place was set for Julian.

"You're incredibly slow," Siska said. She was still in her police uniform, and she looked at him the way she looked at suspects across an interview table. "You smell like raw meat, Julian. It's disgusting. You're ruining our appetite." She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Where were you this afternoon? Answer properly."

"Hospital," Julian said. "A check-up."

"A check-up." Siska set her glass down. "I stop liars on this city's streets for a living, Julian. I know the face they make. You have it right now. I have never been wrong about a person in my life, and I am not wrong about you."

Julian remained silent. He stood in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall to support his suddenly weak body. His head throbbed violently again, and his stomach knotted. He realized he hadn't eaten a single thing since morning. His eyes happened to land on a leftover piece of bread on a kitchen tray. He picked up the dry crust. Across the table, Karen lifted her wineglass, and his mouth opened on an old warning, *don't, not before food, your stomach lining*. He closed it on the bread instead.

"Oh my god! Look at that!" shrieked the head housekeeper, suddenly shouting toward the dining table. "Miss Victoria, look at this adopted boy!"

Victoria Vance—the CEO of Vance Global and the eldest sister, who held the ultimate authority in the house—put down her dinner knife. The sharp clang of metal hitting the porcelain plate echoed loudly, silencing the room.

Victoria looked at Julian with cold, arrogant eyes. "Orphanage blood never lies, does it? You behave like a starving street urchin who has never known civilization."

"It's fine, Victoria," Karen said softly. She rose and crossed the room with the unhurried grace she had at the hospital, the grace that made patients' families trust her with their lives. "Julian, you've lost weight. When was the last time you slept properly? You must be so tired."

Her hands gently straightened his collar, the way one tidies a child. Her fingers were cool.

"There's no need to cook anymore," she said, smiling. "There's no need to do anything anymore." From her purse she drew a black card and slid it into his chest pocket, patting it twice. "There's £50,000 on this card, for your severance. Tristan—our real brother, the family's long-lost biological son—has been found. He is moving in tonight."

Her smile never wavered. That was the unsettling part.

"It's time for you to leave, Julian. It's for everyone's health."

Julian froze. "Leave? But... this house... is my home."

"Tristan comes home tonight, and this house will be his house." Victoria's voice was not loud; the room simply obeyed it. "He is the heir of this family. That is decided, and I do not repeat myself. Your presence will only make him uncomfortable—so you will leave. Tonight." She studied him the way she studied a balance sheet. "Is the money not enough? Name a price. I'll wire £500,000 this very second, as long as you pack your bags, get out of Mayfair, and never show your face to us again."

"It's not about the money!" Julian's voice rose, trembling with ten years of suppressed rage. "Before he died, Father entrusted this house to me! He asked me to take care of you!"

"Don't you dare bring up our late father!" Siska snapped, stepping forward and shoving Julian's chest so hard his back slammed against the kitchen door. "I know exactly what you are. I have been right about every criminal I have ever put in a cell, and I am right about you! You're just a stray he picked up out of pity! You're a parasite!"

The pain in Julian's head flared up again, worse than before, searing right behind his eyes. But the crushing heartbreak in his chest was far more suffocating. The promise he had kept to the late Lord Vance suddenly felt utterly pointless in the face of these heartless people.

Julian looked into his three sisters' eyes, one by one. There was no longer any hesitation or hope left in his gaze. All that remained was an icy, dead stare.

Julian picked up the bank card that had fallen at his feet and placed it back in Karen's hand.

"Keep your money," Julian said flatly, devoid of any emotion. "But remember the decision you made tonight. Don't ever regret it... and don't ever beg me to come back."

Victoria let out a short, mocking laugh. "Beg you? In your dreams, Julian! Get out of my house!"

Julian didn't say another word. He turned, grabbed the doorknob, and walked out into the pouring rain of the Mayfair night, without taking a single thing from the mansion.

But just a few steps away from the mansion's gates, the old phone in Julian's pocket vibrated. He quickly took shelter under a nearby tree and pulled out the phone.

Without hesitation, Julian swiped the screen to answer. He listened closely, and in the next second, he closed his eyes briefly, as if stealing his resolve.

Then, staring back at the grand estate that had once been his home, Julian spoke coldly into the receiver, "No need. Pull all of our support for them immediately."

Inside, the door clicked shut. Nobody spoke. The soup went on steaming, politely, as if nothing had happened. Victoria looked at the door for one second longer than she needed to. Then she picked up her knife.

"Eat," she said. "It will get cold."