Page 24 of Dream On, Liar

Meeting him and realising I had met him years ago?

That part sat differently in my chest…sharper somehow.

I scrubbed a hand down my face and stared up at the ceiling.

How could I forget meeting someone like that?

According to the internet, it was normal. That childhood amnesia was actually quite common. Most people forgot huge chunks of their early years unless something had been emotionally significant enough to stick.

But that logic didn’t sit right with me.

Surely I would’ve remembered meeting my half-brother. Playing cricket with him. Running around some park or sports hall together while our father watched from the sidelines?

Surely I would’ve noticed another kid calling my father Dad.

Unless he’d told him not to.

The thought landed heavily in my chest.

That’s fucked up.

But not impossible. Not for Vikram Patel.

If anything, it sounded exactly like something my father would do. Something he must have done.

Right?

My brain latched on the thought, slowly breathing life into the spiral I’d done my hardest to avoid.

Telling us about Ishaan’s existence had never been some grand attempt at clearing his conscience. He hadn’t suddenly decided honesty mattered to him after decades of lying.

No, the truth had only come out because Raina had a run in with our father almost seven years since he’d abandoned her. After he’d left her with our grandparents back in Delhi, lied to us about it and went on with his life, like it was something that would eventually smooth itself over with time.

How did she know?

My brows pulled together in a frown. The day Raina and Dev—who’d been present for their fight—told us about everything that had gone down, I’d been too taken aback with the rest of it…that I hadn’t even questioned it.

But more than that, I couldn’t help but wonder why Ishaan hadn’t reached out, either? He wasn’t in another country like Raina had been. He clearly knew about us, if his weekly lunches were to take into account. He wasn’t hidden away in some distant life we were never meant to touch. He was here. In Surrey. In London, maybe. He could’ve been existing within the same city for years while the rest of us moved through our lives completely unaware of him.

That was the part my brain kept circling back to no matter how hard I tried to move past it.

London suddenly didn’t feel that big anymore.

There were only so many cricket grounds. So many restaurants. So many train stations and cafés and random streets you passed through without thinking. The chances of crossing paths had to have existed hundreds of times over the years. Maybe we already had before. Maybe there had been moments where we’d stood feet away from each other without only one of us realising. He’d known what I looked like.

The thought made something in my chest ache strangely.

Because how did that happen accidentally?

How did someone know they had siblings living in the same city and never reach out once? Never say anything?

I turned my head against the pillow, jaw tightening.

Unless he’d been told not to.

The thought rang in me again, louder this time and instantly, without even meaning to, I could picture it too clearly. Dad sitting across from him in his den back at the estate, speaking in that controlled, measured tone he used whenever he wanted to sound reasonable instead of cruel. Making it seem noble somehow. Sensible. Like staying away was the kinder option for everyone involved.

The sick part was that it probably would’ve worked on me too at that age. At any age.