[BL] Bound to My Enemy: The Billionaire Who Took My Girl Chapter 26: Family House

NOAH

The Bennett family ho looked exactly the sa as it always did.

Pristine. Immaculate. Suffocating.

A typical two-story suburban house with cream-colored siding and a perfectly manicured lawn that my father mowed every Saturday morning without fail. The kind of house that looked warm and inviting from the outside, like sothing out of a catalog for the Arican Dream.

But I knew better.

I stood at the front door, shopping bags in hand, staring at the brass knocker like it might bite .

My stomach was in knots. My chest felt tight. Every instinct scread at to turn around, get back in my car, and drive as far away as possible.

But I didn’t.

Because I never did.

I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and pushed the door open.

The living room hit like a slap to the face.

Not because it was different... it wasn’t. Everything was exactly where it had always been. The sa beige couch. The sa glass coffee table. The sa family photos arranged on the mantle, most of them featuring Nick front and center while I hovered awkwardly in the background or was cropped out entirely.

But it was the wall that made my throat tighten.

The Wall of Achievent.

That’s what I’d started calling it in my head years ago, though I’d never said it out loud.

It took up nearly the entire left side of the living room, a carefully curated shrine to my brother’s excellence.

Frad certificates lined the top row, each one gleaming behind glass like holy artifacts:

- National Math Olympiad, 1st Place (three years running)

- State Science Fair, Gold dal

- Academic Excellence Award (every year since middle school)

Below them, sports trophies crowded the shelves:

- Track & Field Championships (multiple gold dals)

- Swimming State Champion

- MVP awards from various high school teams

And then the university honors:

- Dean’s List certificates, all four years

- dical School acceptance letter from Johns Hopkins (frad, naturally)

- Graduation photo in cap and gown, looking confident and accomplished

And right in the center, the newest addition:

- Attending Surgeon Position Announcent from Presbyterian dical Center, complete with a photo of Nick shaking hands with the hospital director.

The whole display was spotlit. Literally. My father had installed special lighting to make sure it was visible from every angle.

I stood there, bags cutting into my palms, staring at the wall like it was a car accident I couldn’t look away from.

My eyes drifted, almost against my will, to the corner.

The corner where my achievents had been shoved.

There was a small shelf, tucked behind a potted plant that was half-dead and desperately needed watering. If you didn’t know to look for it, you’d miss it entirely.

My awards were there. Gathering dust.

2nd Place, Regional Math Competition.

3rd Place, State Essay Contest.

Honorable ntion, Science Fair.

So of the certificates were face-down. One had a visible water stain from where soone had set a drink on it. Another was bent at the corner, like it had been stepped on.

I rembered the day I brought ho that 2nd place Math trophy.

I’d been so proud. So excited.

I’d run into the house, holding it above my head like it was the Olympic torch, shouting, "Mom! Dad! I got second place!"

My mother had looked up from the stove, expression flat.

"Why not first?"

Three words.

That’s all it took to drain every ounce of joy from my body.

My father hadn’t even looked up from his newspaper. Just said, "Your brother got first and he’s your age."

And that was it.

I’d taken my trophy upstairs and shoved it in the back of my closet.

A few weeks later, my mother had asked where it was. Said the house looked "unfinished" without displaying achievents. So I’d brought it down.

And she’d put it behind the plant.

I swallowed hard, tearing my gaze away from the corner.

Don’t think about it. Don’t feel it. Just get through tonight.

I heard voices coming from deeper in the house... my father’s low rumble, Nick’s smooth, confident tone.

For a brief, desperate mont, I considered turning around.

Just leaving.

I could text my mom. Say I was sick. Say work ca up. Say anything.

But my feet wouldn’t move.

Because leaving would just confirm what they already thought about .

That I was weak. That I couldn’t handle things. That I didn’t belong.

So I stayed.

I found them in the dining room.

My father and Nick were hunched over the table, working on sothing together. As I got closer, I realized it was a model ship... an elaborate, sophisticated thing with tiny rigging and intricate details.

They were completely absorbed in it, heads bent close, my father handing Nick pieces while Nick carefully glued them into place.

It was the kind of scene that would’ve looked sweet if I didn’t know better.

If I didn’t rember all the tis I’d asked to join them for projects like this and been brushed off.

"Dad’s busy, Noah."

"Maybe later."

"This is complicated. You’ll just ss it up."

Later never ca.

Nick looked up first.

His face transford instantly... like soone had flipped a switch. The cold, focused expression lted into sothing warm and welcoming.

"Noah!" He smiled, bright and fake and perfectly perford. "You made it!"

His tone was cheerful. Enthusiastic. The kind of tone you’d use for a friend you were genuinely happy to see.

But his eyes stayed flat.

Cold.

Like I was an insect that had crawled into his line of sight.

I ignored him.

Turned directly to my father instead.

"Happy birthday, Dad."

My father didn’t look up.

Didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken.

Just reached for a small pair of pliers and said, "Nicholas, pass the small pliers. Don’t get distracted."

Nick’s smirk was subtle. Barely there. Just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

But I saw it.

My jaw clenched.

I stood there for a few seconds, waiting.

Hoping.

Pathetically, desperately hoping that my father would at least glance up. Say thank you. Acknowledge my existence.

He didn’t.

Just kept working on the model ship like I wasn’t even there.

"Noah."

My mother’s voice cut through the silence like a whip crack.

I turned.

She was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, apron tied around her waist, hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her face was flushed from the heat of cooking, and there was a smudge of flour on her cheek.

"You’re late," she said flatly.

Not hello.

Not how are you.

Just an accusation.

"I... "

"Put those... wherever." She gestured vaguely at the bags in my hands. "Then co help . The japchae won’t stir itself."

And then she was gone, disappearing back into the kitchen before I could even respond.