Chapter 5 Confessions on a Stormy Night

# Chapter 5: Confessions on a Stormy Night

I spent the next week avoiding both Jake and his parents. It wasn't difficult; the Mitchell house was large enough that we could orbit each other like distant planets, never quite colliding. Mrs. Mitchell had retreated into a frigid politeness that was almost worse than anger, while Mr. Mitchell seemed oblivious to the tension, buried as he was in his work and grief.

Jake made several attempts to speak with me—texts, notes slipped under my door, even flowers delivered to the house—but I ignored them all. I needed space to process everything I'd learned, to recalibrate my understanding of the past three years of my life.

Had I ever really known Robert at all? The man I'd agreed to marry had presented himself as straightforward, honest to a fault. Now I discovered he'd been manipulating me from the start, molding me into something I wasn't, hiding significant parts of his history, surveilling me like a prisoner.

And Jake—what was I to make of him? The brother who had watched it happen, who had his own complicated history with Robert's past, who had finally revealed the truth but perhaps too late.

Seven days after our discovery in Robert's study, a spring storm rolled in, bringing thunder that rattled the windows and lightning that turned night briefly to day. I sat in my room, watching raindrops race down the glass, when the house phone rang.

I ignored it, knowing Mrs. Mitchell would answer. Minutes later, there was a soft knock at my door.

"Emma?" Mrs. Mitchell's voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. "It's the hospital. About Jake."

My heart stuttered. "Hospital?"

"He collapsed at work. They think it's exhaustion and dehydration, possibly a fever. Richard is out of town, and I—" she paused, and I could hear the strain in her voice. "I can't lose another son. Even temporarily. Would you...?"

I was already reaching for my coat. "I'll go."

"Thank you." The relief in her voice was genuine. Whatever her feelings about my presence in their lives, her concern for Jake was real.

The drive to the hospital was treacherous, rain coming down in sheets that the wipers could barely clear. By the time I arrived, I was soaked just from the dash from the parking lot to the entrance.

A nurse directed me to Jake's room in the general ward. He wasn't in serious condition, she assured me, just dehydrated and running a high fever. They were giving him fluids and monitoring him overnight as a precaution.

I paused outside his door, suddenly uncertain. We hadn't spoken since that night in Robert's study. What would I say to him now?

Before I could decide, the door opened, and a doctor emerged, nearly bumping into me.

"Are you family?" she asked, noting my hesitation.

"Yes," I lied. "I'm his sister-in-law."

The doctor nodded. "He's been asking for you. The fever's making him a bit delirious, but that's normal. Try to keep him calm, and call the nurse if his temperature rises."

Inside, the room was dimly lit, a single lamp casting soft shadows across the bed where Jake lay. He looked smaller somehow, vulnerable in the hospital gown, an IV dripping fluids into his arm. His normally tanned skin was pale, and a light sheen of sweat covered his forehead.

"Jake?" I said softly, approaching the bed.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then widening when he recognized me. "Emma?" His voice was hoarse. "You came."

"Your mother called me." I set my wet coat on a chair and moved closer. "What happened?"

"Stupid," he mumbled. "Forgot to eat. Forgot to sleep. Too much work."

I touched his forehead—burning hot. "You have a fever."

"Worth it," he said, his eyes drifting closed again. "You're here."

I sat in the chair beside his bed, unsure what to do next. The steady beep of the heart monitor and the drumming of rain against the window filled the silence between us.

"I'm sorry," Jake said suddenly, his eyes still closed. "About everything."

"You need to rest," I told him.

"No, need to say this." He struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort. "Might not have the courage when the fever breaks."

I gently pushed him back against the pillows. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

"It's waited too long already." His hand found mine, surprisingly strong despite his condition. "I should have told you about Luna from the beginning. Should have warned you about Robert's patterns."

"Jake—"

"Let me finish." His eyes opened, fever-bright but clear. "I watched it happen again. Watched him reshape another woman to fit his ideal. But this time was worse because..." he trailed off, swallowing hard.

"Because what?" I prompted when he didn't continue.

"Because this time, I knew you first." The admission seemed to cost him energy he didn't have. "Met you at that charity thing, two months before Robert did. Remember?"

I did remember. A fundraiser for children's literacy where I'd been volunteering. Jake had been charming, attentive, had asked for my number. But then I'd met Robert at another event, and he'd pursued me with such focused intensity that Jake's brief interest had seemed insignificant in comparison.

"You never called me," I recalled.

"Robert saw us talking. Later that night, he asked about you. Within a week, he'd arranged to meet you 'coincidentally.' Once he set his sights on you..." Jake's voice faded, his energy clearly flagging.

"You should rest," I insisted, but he tightened his grip on my hand.

"No, you need to understand. Every time you smile that smile—the one he taught you—every time you dress the way he wanted, speak the way he trained you... it kills me." His words were becoming slurred, the fever taking its toll. "You're like two people. The real Emma I glimpse sometimes, and Robert's creation."

I felt tears gathering, hot and unwelcome. "I don't know who the real Emma is anymore."

Jake's eyes drifted closed again, but he continued speaking, his voice growing fainter. "I do. She's the one who eats dessert with her whole face. Who laughs too loudly at bad jokes. Who wanted to go to Disneyland but settled for museums because they were more 'culturally significant.'"

His observations were so specific, so accurate that they stole my breath. Had he been watching me that closely all this time?

"You every time you try to be perfect..." Jake mumbled, drifting toward sleep, "I just want to mess you up. Make you real again."

The confession hung in the air between us, raw and honest in a way our previous interactions had never been. I sat frozen, unsure how to respond, but Jake wasn't finished.

"Your eyes," he continued, his words now barely audible, "when you're truly happy—they crinkle at the corners. Haven't seen that since before the engagement."

His breathing deepened as he slipped into sleep, leaving me with his feverish confessions echoing in my mind. I sat beside him for hours as the storm raged outside, watching his chest rise and fall, occasionally wiping his brow with a cool cloth when his fever spiked.

Around three in the morning, Jake became restless, thrashing against the sheets and muttering incoherently. I tried to calm him, but he seemed caught in some nightmare he couldn't escape.

"Jake, it's okay," I soothed, taking his hand. "You're safe."

His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused. "Emma?" He clutched my hand like a lifeline. "Don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere," I promised.

"Not like Luna," he mumbled. "She left. Everyone leaves."

"I'm right here." I stroked his hair back from his forehead, the intimate gesture coming naturally despite our complicated relationship.

Jake's gaze fixed on my face with an intensity that belied his weakened state. "I've been taking the pills again," he confessed suddenly.

"Pills?" I repeated, confused.

"For the depression. Started after Robert died. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking about you, alone in that house with his ghost." His words tumbled out, filter removed by fever. "Every time you studied his portrait, looking for approval he'll never give... it breaks me."

The revelation stunned me. Jake had always seemed so confident, so composed—the carefree counterpoint to Robert's rigid control. The thought that he was struggling with depression, that he'd been watching me grapple with my own grief while fighting his own battles, made my heart ache.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked softly.

"Not your burden," he replied, his eyes beginning to droop again. "You had enough... with everything."

As he drifted back to sleep, I remained by his side, processing his confessions. The storm outside had quieted to a gentle rain, matching the tears that silently tracked down my cheeks.

Morning brought sunlight streaming through the hospital windows and a much-improved Jake. His fever had broken sometime before dawn, and when he woke, his eyes were clear and alert—and immediately wary when they landed on me.

"You stayed," he said, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

"All night." I stretched, my back stiff from hours in the uncomfortable chair.

Jake ran a hand through his disheveled hair, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "How much do you remember of what I said last night?"

"All of it." There was no point in pretense now.

He winced. "Emma, I—"

"You said you've been taking antidepressants," I interrupted gently. "That you started again after Robert died."

Jake looked away. "Among other things, yes."

"Why hide it from me?"

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "The same reason Robert hid Luna from you. The Mitchell men aren't supposed to show weakness."

"Depression isn't weakness," I said firmly.

"Try telling that to my father." Jake fidgeted with his IV line. "After Luna died and I... struggled... he made it very clear that mental health issues were to be dealt with privately, efficiently, and without discussion."

The image of the Mitchell family I'd constructed over the years continued to fracture and reshape itself. The perfect, polished exterior hiding so many cracks and shadows beneath.

"Is that why you collapsed?" I asked. "The medication?"

Jake shook his head. "No. That was just stupidity. I've been working around the clock on this merger, skipping meals, not sleeping. The medication is actually helping, when I remember to take it properly."

A nurse came in to check Jake's vitals, declaring him much improved and promising discharge papers by noon. When we were alone again, an awkward silence fell between us.

"Thank you," Jake said finally. "For coming. For staying."

"Your mother asked me to."

"Still. After everything that happened in Robert's study, you had every right to ignore her call."

I looked down at my hands, remembering how easily they'd found their way to Jake's hair, his face, during the night. How natural it had felt to comfort him.

"Do you remember what else you said?" I asked. "About me? About us?"

Jake's expression grew guarded. "Vaguely. I was pretty out of it."

"You said you met me first. Before Robert did."

He sighed, resignation replacing caution. "Yes. At the Book Buddies fundraiser. You were wearing a blue dress, and you had smudges of finger paint on your hands from the children's activity table. You apologized for not shaking hands properly, and I told you I'd never seen a more beautiful shade of blue than the paint on your fingers."

The specificity of his memory caught me off guard. "I don't remember you saying that."

"I did." His smile was sad. "But then Robert happened, and the rest is history."

"You also said..." I hesitated, gathering courage. "You said that every time I try to be perfect, you just want to mess me up. Make me real again."

Jake closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. "Fever talk. Ignore it."

"I can't." I moved from the chair to the edge of his bed, forcing him to look at me. "Because I feel the same way. Since Robert died, I've been trying to figure out who I really am underneath all his training and expectations. And the only time I feel like myself is when I'm with you."

The admission hung between us, changing the atmosphere in the room. Jake's expression shifted from guarded to hopeful to conflicted in rapid succession.

"Emma," he said carefully, "I'm not sure you know what you're saying."

"I do." I reached for his hand, interlacing our fingers. "Last night, when you were fevered and brutally honest, was the first real conversation I've had in years. No performance, no careful editing, just truth."

"Truth can be dangerous," Jake warned, though he didn't pull his hand away.

"So can lies," I countered. "I've been living with those long enough."

Something shifted in Jake's eyes—a decision being made. He reached out with his free hand, cupping my face with a gentleness that made my breath catch.

"There's something I need to know," he said softly. "Something real."

Before I could respond, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. The kiss was tentative at first, a question more than a demand. Unlike Robert's calculated kisses, which always felt like they were checking items off a list of physical affection, Jake's kiss was exploratory, responsive, adjusting to my reaction.

And react I did. Without conscious thought, I found myself leaning into him, my hand coming up to rest against his chest where I could feel his heart racing beneath the thin hospital gown. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, more certain.

When we finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, I found myself trembling.

"That felt..." Jake started.

"Real," I finished for him.

A sudden knock at the door made us jump apart guiltily. A different nurse entered with discharge paperwork and instructions, eyeing us with professional disinterest as she explained Jake's aftercare.

As we drove back to the Mitchell house in silence, I couldn't stop replaying the kiss in my mind. It had awakened something I thought Robert had permanently suppressed—a spontaneity, a passion that couldn't be scripted or controlled.

"What happens now?" I asked as we pulled into the driveway.

Jake turned off the engine but made no move to get out. "That depends on you. If you want to forget this happened, I'll understand."

"And if I don't?"

His expression was serious, thoughtful. "Then we need to be careful. Not just because of my parents or what people might think, but because you're still finding yourself after Robert. I don't want to be another person who shapes you into what they want."

The consideration in his words touched me deeply. Robert had never once worried about influencing me too much; in fact, he'd made it his mission to reshape me entirely.

"I think," I said slowly, "that I'd like to figure out who I am with someone who actually wants to know the answer. Someone who sees me even when I can't see myself."

Jake's smile was tentative but genuine. "I'd like that too."

Inside the house, Mrs. Mitchell fussed over Jake, insisting he go straight to bed despite his protests that he was fine. I retreated to my room, needing space to process everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

As I changed out of my wrinkled clothes, my phone chimed with a text from Jake:

_Check your nightstand drawer._

Curious, I opened the drawer to find a small orange prescription bottle. My breath caught as I realized what it was—Jake's antidepressants, hidden in my room. The implications were immediate and powerful: he trusted me with his secret, his vulnerability, the very thing his family had taught him to hide.

I texted back:

_Why here?_

His response came quickly:

_So I'd have a reason to see you every day, even when you were avoiding me._

The simple honesty of his answer brought tears to my eyes. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the bottle of pills that represented so much more than medication—they were trust, truth, and the beginning of something I hadn't dared hope for.

Another text arrived:

_Too much?_

I smiled through my tears and replied:

_Just enough. Rest now. We'll talk later._

That evening, as rain began to fall again, softer this time, I found myself standing outside Jake's bedroom door, his medication in hand. I knocked softly, not wanting to wake him if he was sleeping.

"Come in," he called.

Jake was propped up against his headboard, looking much better than he had in the hospital, though still tired. He smiled when he saw me, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners.

"I brought these," I said, holding up the pill bottle. "Thought you might need them."

"Thanks." He took the bottle, his fingers brushing mine. "I'm supposed to take them with dinner, which I haven't had yet."

"Neither have I. I could make us something?"

"Or we could order in. Less work for you."

I shook my head. "I want to cook. Robert never let me in the kitchen—said the staff would be offended if the lady of the house prepared meals."

Jake's expression darkened momentarily at the mention of his brother. "Then by all means, let's offend some absent staff."

In the kitchen, I assembled ingredients for a simple pasta dish while Jake sat at the island, watching me work. There was something intimate about cooking for someone, I realized—something fundamental and nurturing that Robert had denied me in his quest for propriety.

"You look happy," Jake observed as I stirred the sauce.

"I am," I admitted. "This feels normal. Real."

"Normal is underrated," he agreed.

As we ate at the kitchen island rather than the formal dining room, sharing a bottle of wine and easy conversation, I felt the last pieces of Robert's careful construction falling away. Here, with sauce-splattered counters and mismatched napkins, laughing at Jake's terrible jokes, I wasn't performing or calculating or measuring myself against impossible standards.

I was just Emma. Perhaps for the first time since I'd met Robert Mitchell.

After dinner, as Jake took his medication with the last of his wine, he grew serious.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said. "About the night Robert died."

My heart stuttered. "What about it?"

Jake's expression was troubled, his eyes not quite meeting mine. "I was supposed to be in that car with him. We were both invited to the same event, and we'd planned to go together. But we had a fight earlier that day—about you, actually."

"About me?" I set down my wine glass, suddenly cold.

"I confronted him about the cameras, about the way he was controlling you. Told him he was making the same mistakes he'd made with Luna, trying to create a perfect partner instead of loving a real person." Jake's voice was strained with the memory. "He accused me of being jealous, of wanting what was his. Said some things about Luna and me that... well, they weren't entirely untrue but were cruel nonetheless."

"So you didn't go with him," I finished quietly.

Jake nodded. "I told him I'd find my own way there. If I'd been in that car..."

"You might be dead too," I whispered, the realization hitting me hard.

"Or I might have been driving instead of him. Or we might have left later, or earlier, and missed the truck that ran the light." Jake ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I now recognized as his tell for emotional distress. "I've played it over and over in my head."

I reached across the counter and took his hand. "You can't blame yourself for not being there."

"I don't, not exactly. But I do think about how our last conversation was an argument. About you." His eyes finally met mine, filled with a complicated mixture of guilt and something warmer. "About how he didn't deserve you."

The confession hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. Before I could respond, Jake stood abruptly.

"I should get some rest. Doctor's orders."

I nodded, understanding his need for space after such a revelation. "Of course."

At the kitchen doorway, he paused and turned back. "Emma?"

"Yes?"

"I meant what I said that night to Robert, and I meant what I said in the hospital, fever or no fever. When you're being truly yourself—not his creation, not anyone's ideal—you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

With that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving me breathless and more certain than ever that whatever was growing between us was something Robert had never offered me: something real, something honest, something that saw me clearly and valued what it saw.