BW | Chapter 4: Our Beautiful Sin

The heavy thud of the front door echoed through the house, sounding less like a homecoming and more like a gavel.

Jake stood by the kitchen island, his knuckles white as he gripped a cold cup of coffee. It had been exactly one month since the birthday party—a month of stolen afternoons, whispered vows, and the raw, aggressive passion of their final night. Every time their skin brushed in the hallway now, the air turned to static, a jagged reminder of the red dress that had been torn, mended, and then nearly shredded again in their frantic farewell.

“I’m back!” John’s voice boomed from the foyer, sounding exhausted but triumphant.

Camila emerged from the nursery. Her face was a mask of practiced composure, though Jake noticed the slight tremor in her hands as she smoothed her skirt. She looked different—vibrant, yet haunted.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice landing somewhere between a greeting and a question.

John dropped his bags and pulled her into a hug. From the kitchen, Jake watched his brother’s hand rest on the small of Camila’s back—the same spot Jake had gripped with desperate, bruising possessiveness only hours ago. He felt a wave of nausea so sharp he had to look away.

“Finished the site survey ahead of schedule,” John said, pulling back to scan her face. He frowned slightly. “You look… different, Camila. Tired, but glowing. Did Mico give you a hard time?”

“No,” she said quickly, her eyes darting toward the kitchen for a split second before snapping back. “Jake helped. He was… he was always here.”

John turned, finally noticing Jake. A wide, genuine smile broke across his face—the smile of a man who trusted his brother more than anyone in the world. “Jake! Man, I owe you one. Thanks for stepping up for a whole month. I knew I could count on you to take care of things.”

The word care felt like a physical blow. Jake thought of the note he’d left on her nightstand, the shared showers, and the way he’d claimed her on the very counter he was currently leaning against.

“It was no trouble, Kuya,” Jake managed to say, the honorific tasting like ash.

John clapped a heavy hand on Jake’s shoulder. “I mean it. This project is going to set us up for years. I’m thinking of taking us all to Boracay. You’ve done enough for this family; you deserve a break.”

John moved past him to raid the fridge, whistling a low tune. The domesticity was agonizing. John was back in his role as the provider, completely oblivious to the fact that the foundations of his “perfect” life had been scorched. Camila walked into the kitchen to help him, but as she passed Jake, her hand grazed his. It wasn’t an accident. She lingered for a heartbeat, her fingers pressing into his skin with a desperate plea. Jake saw the truth in her eyes: she was mourning the month they had just lost.

“Sit down, Jake. Tell me everything I missed,” John said, pulling out a chair. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”

Jake looked at Camila. She was standing behind John, her shadow overlapping with her husband’s. “Nothing much happened, John,” Jake lied, his heart hammering. “It was a very quiet month.”

The tension didn’t break with a shout; it broke a week later with a sound so mundane it was haunting: the rhythmic click-clack of John’s lighter on the dark patio.

Jake stepped outside, hoping for a moment of solitude. He stopped cold when he saw John’s silhouette in the wicker chair, staring toward the guest room window.

“You’re up late,” Jake said.

“I’ve been thinking about foundations, Jake,” John replied, his voice devoid of warmth. “If the foundation is cracked, the whole structure is a lie. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the facade is.”

Jake felt the hair on his arms stand up. “Kuya—”

“I found it.” John stood up slowly and tossed a small, silver object onto the glass table.

It was Jake’s cufflink. The one lost in the frantic, aggressive scramble of their final night.

“I went into the guest room to look for my drafting set,” John said, the moonlight revealing eyes brimming with terrifying clarity. “It was under the bed. Right next to a stain on the rug that didn’t look like wine. And then I started looking at the calendar. The way you two look at each other. The way she flinches when I touch her.”

The silence was deafening. The facade had finally shattered.

“John, I—”

“Don’t,” John hissed. “I trusted you with my home. With my wife.”

“It wasn’t just him, John.” Camila stood in the doorway, wrapped in a silk robe, her expression strangely calm. The terror was gone, replaced by a hollowed-out honesty. “Ours was built in your absence. On your ‘schedules.’ Jake was the only one who actually stayed.”

“So that justifies this?” John roared. “Betraying your vows with my own brother?”

“Nothing justifies it,” Camila said, a single tear falling. “But don’t pretend you were blind. You didn’t think he’d actually love me. You didn’t think I’d finally feel seen.”

John turned his fury back to Jake. “Is that what this is? Love? Or just another thing of mine you wanted to take?”

The bitterness stung, but Jake didn’t flinch. “I loved her first, John. You took her because you take everything. You didn’t even want her—you just wanted the trophy.”

John lunged. He grabbed Jake by the collar and slammed him against the patio railing. “I should kill you.”

“Then do it,” Jake challenged, his voice cold. “Because if you don’t, I’m not leaving without her. Not after this month.”

John’s grip loosened. He looked at Jake, then at Camila, who made no move to pull them apart. He realized he had already lost. The brother he championed and the wife he displayed were gone, replaced by two strangers bound by a sin he couldn’t forgive.

John let go, stumbling back as if he were covered in filth.

“Get out,” John said, his voice small and broken. “Both of you. Take what you want and leave. But if I ever see you near Mico again, I’ll tell the world exactly what kind of animals you are.”

Jake looked at Camila. She didn’t hesitate. She walked toward him, stepping over the shattered glass on the patio, and took his hand. Her grip was tight, terrified, and final.

As they walked toward the gate, leaving the house behind, the only sound was the wind through the trees and the distant, muffled cry of a child who would grow up in the ruins of their choices.