TWISTED PROMISES (Twisted Path Book 2

Chapter 11

Shane

Silence. That's all there is, the moment my hand falls from my father's grasp.

There's no applause. No chatter. Just the heavy hush of anticipation as I step toward the podium, the cold weight of the room pressing down on me like a second spine. More than two hundred polished eyes track my every move—some curious, some smiling with feigned admiration, most indifferent—but all waiting.

In a ridiculous display—no doubt my mother's doing—the spotlight finds me. It burns hot against my skin, casting everything beyond its glare into a blur of shadows and blinding gold. Christmas lights flicker like camera flashes along the towering trees flanking me, but even they disappear beneath the blaze of artificial light.

It's all so surreal. Like a nightmare I've been forced to step into—no warning, no chance to wake up in time to stop it.

I grip the edge of the podium to steady my hands. Somewhere in the crowd, a shutter clicks. The first of many, I'm sure.

I breathe slowly. In. Out. And then, in the quiet of my mind, I hear her voice.

Don't let them break you.

I close my eyes just for a breath. Just long enough to remember what I told her. That they can't break me. Because I'm no longer theirs to break.

I'm yours, Becca. I'll only ever be yours.

And after this ends—whatever it takes, no matter the cost—I will make this up to you.

With renewed strength, my eyes open. My spine straightens. My shoulders square with the kind of posture my parents spent years drilling into me.

And then... I begin.

"Amanda," I say, my voice strong, practiced, yet somehow foreign in my ears. "Would you join me, please?"

She rises like she's weightless. All grace and satin. Her smile could light up the cathedral dome at Saint Peter's, and every step she takes is a study in perfect poise.

A flutter of camera shutters follows, the mechanical click of approval echoing off the chandeliered ceiling.

She floats toward me like a fairytale princess walking toward her prince.

And I?

I take her hand. A practiced smile stretching across my face—polite, polished, camera-ready.

And I feel myself split in two.

Because the hand I want to be holding is miles away. Because this is a pageant. A performance. And I'm the lead in a love story written by someone else, for someone I'll never be.

The room leans in, breathless and eager. Like vampires poised to pounce, ready to twist this moment into whatever serves them best.

I draw in a measured breath.

Then another.

And then I let the words fall straight from my heart.

"Love," I begin, keeping my tone soft. Intimate. Like I'm letting them in on a secret. Which, unbeknownst to them, is exactly what I'm doing.

My words are a truth carved from the very foundation of my love for Becca. From everything that loving her has taught me. A truth that doesn't belong to the girl beside me, but to the girl who changed everything. The one who owns every piece of me.

This is my rebellion.

My one chance to speak freely. To defy my mother's script. To speak directly to Becca in words only she will recognize.