Chapter 3: The Unraveling Thread
The Manoban estate always felt like a museum. Every surface gleamed with the devotion of staff who had nothing else to fill their hours, every corner curated to project an image of wealth and refinement that had been polished over generations. Jennie had grown up in these halls, knew every creak of the staircase and every draft that whispered through the old windows, and still it felt less like home than the cramped dorm room she shared with a roommate she barely tolerated.
She smoothed her dress as she walked through the foyer, the chiffon whispering against her thighs. Leonid walked beside her, his footsteps measured, his face carefully blank. He'd been quiet since their father's car had picked them up an hour ago—quieter than usual, which was saying something—and Jennie could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a stove.
"Stop scowling," she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.
"I'm not scowling."
"You're brooding. It's the same thing, just with more angst."
The ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, there and gone. "Noted."
They entered the dining room together, and Jennie felt the shift immediately. The air was different here—thicker, more deliberate. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden rectangles across the polished mahogany table, but somehow the warmth didn't reach the space between the antique chairs. Their father sat at the head, a newspaper folded beside his plate, his presence commanding despite his relaxed posture.
Their mother rose to greet them, her smile soft and genuine. She was beautiful in the way that porcelain was beautiful—delicate, carefully maintained, prone to cracking under pressure. She pressed a kiss to each of their cheeks, her perfume a whisper of jasmine and something floral.
"You look lovely, Jennie," she said, her fingers brushing a strand of hair from Jennie's face. "And Leonid, you're looking well. Are you eating enough?"
"Yes, Mother." She studied him for a moment, something unreadable passing through her eyes, before gesturing to their seats. "Come. Sit. It's your father's favorite—beef short ribs."
The meal was already set out in elegant serving dishes, steam curling toward the ceiling. Jennie slid into her usual seat, and Leonid took the one beside her, close enough that their arms almost touched. She saw their father's gaze flicker to that proximity, saw the faint disapproval that tightened his jaw, and she deliberately shifted closer.
"Jennie." Their father folded his hands on the table, his voice carrying the weight of expectation. "I heard about the student council budget proposal. Impressive work. The university's board is taking notice."
Jennie inclined her head, accepting the praise with practiced grace. "Thank you, Father. It was a team effort."
"Modesty doesn't suit you." His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You've earned the recognition. The student body respects you, and that's no small thing. It speaks to your character. Your drive."
Across the table, Leonid's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He reached for his water glass, his movements measured, controlled. Jennie watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his knuckles went white against the crystal.
"And Leonid." Their father's attention shifted, and Jennie felt her chest constrict. "How are your classes? Still coasting through business school?"
"I'm maintaining a B-plus average," Leonid said evenly. "The coursework is progressing as expected."
"B-plus." Their father repeated the words like they tasted sour. "With your lineage, with the opportunities you've been given, a B-plus is average. Mediocrity is not what I expected from a Manoban."
"Father—" Jennie started.
"I wasn't speaking to you." The words weren't harsh, but they were final. Their father's eyes remained fixed on Leonid. "Your sister is running the entire student council while maintaining a perfect GPA. She's building connections that will serve this family for decades. And you're... what? Basking in her shadow? Content to be the overlooked twin?"
Leonid's face remained impassive, but Jennie felt the subtle tremor that ran through him. His hand was under the table, she knew, gripping his own thigh to keep it steady.
"The business school is competitive," their mother interjected softly, her tone placating. "Leonid has been working very hard. His professors speak highly of him."
"His professors are paid to speak highly of him." Their father dismissed her words with a wave of his hand. "I'm speaking of results. Of ambition. Of the kind of fire that separates leaders from followers."
Jennie's nails bit into her palm. She forced herself to breathe, to count the seconds between inhale and exhale. She'd heard this speech a hundred times before, in a hundred different variations, and each time it carved something new out of Leonid's chest.
She couldn't let it happen. Not again.
"Did you hear about the internship?" their mother said, clearly attempting to steer the conversation toward safer waters. "Leonid applied for that program with Samsung—"
"I did." Their father's voice was flat. "And I heard he wasn't selected."
The words hung in the air like a verdict. Leonid's fork paused mid-air, his grip tightening until Jennie thought the silver might bend. The sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to dim, the golden warmth turning cold.
"The selection process was extensive," Leonid said quietly, setting down his fork. "Over four hundred applicants for ten positions. I made it to the final round."
"Final round means nothing if you don't finish first." Their father's eyes were cold, calculating. "You think Samsung cares about the nearly? About the almost? They care about winners, Leonid. About people who don't accept second place."
Jennie saw it then—the way Leonid's hands trembled, so faintly she might have missed it if she weren't attuned to every shift of his body. He reached for his glass again, but his fingers were unsteady, and she knew he was struggling to maintain the composure his father demanded.
Under the table, she found his thigh and squeezed.
He stilled. His eyes flickered to hers, and something passed between them—a silent acknowledgment, a grounding connection. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders eased.
"You know," their father continued, oblivious to the exchange, "when I was your age, I had already closed my first major deal. I had already made my first million. I had already proven to my father that I was worthy of carrying this family's name."
"You've told us," Jennie said, her voice deceptively light. "Many times."
Their father's eyes narrowed. "I'm speaking to your brother."
"Leonid doesn't need to hear the same stories again. He knows them by heart." She smiled, sweet and sharp. "We both do."
"Jennie." Her mother's voice carried a warning. "Please."
But Jennie couldn't stop. The words were building in her chest like a pressure cooker, and she knew—she knew—that if she didn't release them now, they would consume her.
"Leonid is not you," she said, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "He'll never be you. And honestly, Father, I don't think he wants to be."
The silence that followed was deafening. Her father's face went still in the way that preceded a storm—dangerous, unpredictable, capable of flattening everything in its path. Her mother's eyes widened with a mixture of fear and disbelief. And Leonid... Leonid was staring at her like she'd grown a second head.
"Excuse me?" Their father's voice had dropped to a dangerous register.
"Jennie." Leonid's hand found hers under the table, squeezing warning. "Don't."
But she couldn't stop now. The words had been dammed up for too long, and they were crashing through her defenses like floodwater.
"I'm tired of watching you tear him apart," she said, each word landing like a blow. "He's not a failure. He's not a disappointment. He's one of the most brilliant, most driven people I've ever known—and you can't see that because you're too busy comparing him to who you were at his age." She drew a shaking breath. "You don't know him. You've never bothered to know him. And you have no right to judge him for not living up to a standard that was never his to meet."
Her father's face had gone pale, then red. His grip on his fork was so tight that his knuckles were white, and for a moment, Jennie thought he might throw it at her.
"Have you forgotten who you're speaking to?" His voice was quiet, controlled—the most dangerous it could be.
"No." Jennie lifted her chin, refusing to back down. "I know exactly who I'm speaking to. I've known since I was six years old, sitting at this same table, watching you praise me for every A while Leonid sat there with his perfect grades and heard nothing but criticism." Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to continue. "He's spent his entire life trying to earn your approval, and you've spent his entire life making him feel like he's never going to be enough."
"You're being dramatic," her father said coldly.
"Am I? Then tell me, Father—when was the last time you told Leonid you were proud of him? Not of his grades, not of his achievements—just him? When was the last time you looked at your son and saw anything other than a disappointment?"
The question landed with the force of a physical blow. Leonid's hand tightened around hers, his breathing shallow, and she could feel the tension radiating off him—not just from their father's words, but from her defense of him. From the words she was saying that he'd never allowed himself to believe.
Their mother was frozen, looking between them with a helpless expression. Their father's face had settled into something cold and hard, his eyes gleaming with an anger that Jennie had only seen a handful of times before—and never directed at her.
"You've made your point," he said finally, his voice clipped. "If you're quite finished undermining my authority in my own home—"
"I'm not undermining anything. I'm telling you the truth." Jennie pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the floor. "The truth that you've been too arrogant to see. Leonid is going to do great things—not because of you, but in spite of you. And one day, you're going to realize what you've lost by refusing to see him for who he is."
The words hung in the air, heavy and irrevocable. Jennie could feel her heart pounding in her throat, could feel the heat of her father's anger and her mother's shock and Leonid's desperate, silent plea.
She didn't know what had come over her. She'd never spoken to her father like this, had always played the role of the obedient daughter, the golden child who never stepped out of line. But watching Leonid shake at a dinner table that should have been full of warmth and family and love—she couldn't sit back. She couldn't let him carry that weight alone.
"I think we should go," Leonid said quietly, rising from his seat. His face was pale, but his voice was steady. "Thank you for dinner, Mother. Father."
"Leonid—" their mother started, her voice cracking.
"We'll get a taxi." He grabbed Jennie's hand, pulling her toward the door. "We'll see ourselves out."
They were halfway down the hall before their father's voice followed them, loud and cold.
"Jennie."
She stopped. Turned. Her father was standing in the doorway of the dining room, his silhouette framed by the golden light behind him. His expression was unreadable.
"You've made a choice today." His voice was quiet, deliberate. "I hope you can live with the consequences."
Something cold slithered down Jennie's spine. She opened her mouth to respond, but Leonid's grip on her hand tightened, pulling her forward.
"Don't," he murmured. "Let's just go."
The front door was heavy, the brass handle cool beneath her palm. They stepped out into the late-afternoon sun, the warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in her bones. Leonid didn't stop walking until they reached the edge of the property, his strides long and purposeful, his hand never leaving hers.
When they finally stopped, he turned to face her, his eyes wild with an emotion she couldn't quite name.
"What were you thinking?" His voice was rough, almost accusing. "You stood up to him. You stood up to him, Jennie. Do you know what he's going to do now? Do you have any idea what you've—"
"Don't." She stepped closer, her hands cupping his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Don't you dare make me regret standing up for you."
His breathing was ragged, his eyes bright with something that might have been tears. "You shouldn't have—"
"I should have done it years ago." Her voice was fierce, unwavering. "I should have told him every single time he made you feel small that he was wrong. That you're worth ten of him. That I would choose you every single time, in every lifetime, without hesitation."
"Jennie—"
"I mean it, Leonid." Her thumbs brushed across his cheekbones, catching the faintest hint of moisture. "I will never let him make you feel like you're not enough. Never. Do you understand?"
His eyes searched hers, looking for something—doubt, hesitation, uncertainty. He found only conviction.
He pulled her into his arms, his face buried in her hair. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, feel the tremors still running through his body, feel the weight of everything he didn't say.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he whispered against her neck.
"You existed," she said simply. "That was enough."