Reborn to Watch Him Regret Choosing My Twin Chapter 03

Reborn to Watch Him Regret Choosing My Twin Chapter 03

I got home close to midnight the next day.

Three years gone, and Hawthorne Manor looked mostly the same. Except the irises I’d planted in the garden were gone. In their place, bright red roses, every thorn meticulously stripped away.

The housekeeper followed my gaze and smiled.

“Mr. Sawyer planted those specially for Mrs. Sawyer. He didn’t want her pricking her fingers when she picked them, so he goes out every morning to remove the new thorns.”

I murmured some response and looked away. I walked inside.

The living room was empty. Just as I expected.

The housekeeper must’ve been new. She rushed to explain, probably worried I’d feel slighted.

“Mrs. Sawyer’s health has always been delicate. Trying for a baby hasn’t been going well, and she had a rough day today. Mr. and Mrs. Nash wore themselves out trying to calm her down. They said they’d change and wait up for you, but they crashed the second they lay down.”

I gave her a gentle smile.

“It’s fine. Just take my luggage to my room, please.”

She grabbed my bags and headed upstairs. Her footsteps were loud.

At the third-floor landing, I came face to face with a figure in the dark.

He was in a bathrobe, the collar loose, showing a wide expanse of skin. His hair was damp.

I glanced at the water glass in his hand. Didn’t say hello.

I figured our past wasn’t the kind you just pretend never happened.

I followed the housekeeper and brushed past him.

His gaze never left me.

A hand closed around my wrist. I was forced to turn back. Under his unrelenting stare, I pulled my hand free, calm.

“Back off. You’re my sister’s husband.”

He froze. His hand dropped to his side. He clenched it, then released.

As if he’d been thinking for an eternity, his voice came out guarded.

“Why are you back?”

I was exhausted. I couldn’t understand why everyone was so convinced he could drop me instantly and fall for my sister, but no one believed I could drop him in three years.

I looked up to answer. The bedroom door behind him clicked open.

My sister stood there in a silk slip. Red marks dotted her collarbone.

“What took you so long?”

The moment she saw me, the flirtation in her eyes twisted into shock.

“Clara? Why are you back?”

She saw the space between us. Barely enough for a single person. She stepped forward in her slippers, grabbed Sterling’s arm, and yanked him back half a step.

“Catching up with your brother-in-law the second you’re home? Clara, don’t tell me you’re still not over him.”

The master bedroom door on the second floor flew open with a slam.

My parents rushed out in their pajamas. Their first instinct was to soothe my sister. Then they turned on me.

“You show up and the first thing you do is upset your sister?”

I rubbed my temples. The overnight flight and the jet lag had me drained. I didn’t have the energy for this.

“We just ran into each other. Doesn’t the stairwell have cameras? Watch the footage yourselves. I’m going to my room.”

At the mention of cameras, their bluster deflated.

That was from when we were kids. My sister used to frame me on the stairs whenever Sterling ignored her. I was too stubborn to confess, so my parents secretly installed cameras to catch me red-handed.

Instead, they caught my sister pretending to fall down the stairs and calling for them.

Their faces that day were priceless. Eyes darting everywhere, refusing to look at me. Finally, under my stare, my mother said it.

“Just don’t provoke your sister.”

The housekeeper, Mrs. Lewis, glanced at all of them, then at me. Her eyes held a trace of pity.

As I opened my door, I heard Sterling’s voice drift up from downstairs, flat and even.

“No need. I ran into her getting water. She said hi. Then Mira came out.”

The word “brother-in-law” landed light as air, as if a whole century stretched between its syllables. Like it burned his tongue.

I shut the door and lay on my bed.

My phone buzzed.

I opened it. A black profile picture. The name read: [Grey Grant].

The chat history was a six-year void. Except for three years ago, when he’d suddenly sent me a location pin. The wedding venue. A single question mark followed. Then nothing.

The latest message was from 8 p.m. tonight. I’d been on the plane.

[I’m coming to your place tomorrow at noon.]

I thought about it, then typed back. [Are you sure you want to do this? The matchmaking thing?]

[You don’t want to?]

His reply was instant. I was surprised he was still awake.

Guess CEOs don’t sleep much. No wonder every hotshot billionaire in those romance novels ends up with stomach issues. Sterling had the same problem. I wondered if my sister even bothered to notice.

I stared at his words. I didn’t feel resistance.

[No. I’m just not getting my hopes up, either.]

The typing indicator pulsed. It hit me a second too late that I’d basically given him a rejection line on a blind date setup.

I wanted to backpedal. But I’d told the truth.

Maybe there was a little defiance in it. Some petty anger at being pushed into this.

A ping. His message landed.

[Then I’ll just have to bring my A-game tomorrow. Maybe I can get Miss Clara Nash to look forward to our next date—even if it’s only one percent.]