The morning light crept in pale and uncertain as Simon paced the rented suite, sleep abandoned to urgency. Shane stood in the kitchenette, stirring instant coffee with the distracted care of someone bracing for change.
Simon crossed the room and took his brother by the shoulder before Shane could speak.
"Come to London," Simon said, the words spilling out unchecked. "Stay. I'll help you transfer — there are excellent universities. We'll find a place for Mum too. All three of us. I'm not letting this slip away."
Shane searched his face — the hope, the fear, the determination — and finally nodded.
"Alright," he said softly. "For Mum. And for us."
London received them in its usual greys and movement. Simon found a flat near Hampstead, close to hospitals and universities — modest, calm, and safe. It became Phoebe and Shane's sanctuary.
Simon kept his penthouse nearby, orbiting the two spaces, never quite belonging to one without the other. The line between homes blurred as family took shape.
What Shane didn't yet know — what Simon hadn't fully admitted — was how much of that success rested on Tom.
Tom had always been there, quietly. The unseen investor. The stabilising force. Forty percent of the company, held without demand or disclosure. A secret rooted not in control, but devotion.
Yet now, another truth pressed harder.
Tom walked the city restlessly, the weight at his ribs no longer abstract. He had waited too long. Love was no longer protection if it came wrapped in deception.
John Mathews was not who Simon believed.
John's true surname was Matvey — son of the Russian don Phoebe had escaped years before. John had changed his name, recast his history, slipped sideways into Simon's life as a quiet ally.
And when Tom was forced into exile in Switzerland, John followed.
The obsession had been misread as loyalty. The attachment — unreciprocated, unspoken — had curdled into something else entirely.
When Tom returned, John remained, lingering in shadow.
Tom's investigators confirmed it all:
the stolen passport, the train ticket, the break‑ins, the yearbook, the messages.
Even the letter Tom had written — the confession meant only for Simon — had been intercepted.
John believed Simon had stolen everything.
The friendship.
The future.
The man he loved.
When Shane was home folding laundry and Phoebe slept in the next room, Tom finally spoke.
He called them both into the sitting room.
"There's something you need to know," he said. "Both of you."
Simon sat beside Shane, instinctively bracing.
Tom didn't soften it.
"John Mathews isn't who you think. His father is Matvey. He changed his name to disappear. He followed me to Switzerland. He was obsessed — with me, with what you and I share. Every intrusion, every message — that was him."
Simon felt the shock land, deep and cold.
"And there's more," Tom continued, voice steady despite the strain. "I've helped build your company, quietly. I'm your private investor. Forty percent. I never wanted ownership — only your stability. I should have told you sooner."
The silence that followed was brittle.
Simon stared at him — hurt, stunned — and then spoke, slowly.
"You should have told me. But you're telling me now."
He looked at Shane. Back at Tom.
"No more shadows."
Shane nodded. "We don't survive this by lying to each other."
Tom finally exhaled, the tension draining from his frame.
Outside, London carried on — indifferent, relentless. But inside the small flat, something steadier took shape.
Not certainty.
Not safety.
But truth — chosen, and held together deliberately — as three lives, battered but unbroken, began to stand in the open at last.