Sinclair Kornblume had always been told he was perfect. Brilliant, beautiful, born with every advantage a man could possess. His tutors praised his intellect, his instructors marveled at his composure, and the world bowed before the flawless grace that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He had learned from a young age that perfection wasn’t just expected, it was required.

And yet, as he stood by the window of his private study years later, the rain streaking down the glass like veins of mercury, Sinclair found himself thinking of the one person who had ever managed to make a fool of him.

Mayumi.

He knew she was playing a game. He wasn’t stupid, he never had been. Her smiles were too careful, her kindness too measured, her eyes too deep to be truly honest. But despite knowing it, despite recognizing every calculated touch and feigned hesitation, Sinclair found himself unable to resist her.

“She’s using me,” he murmured one night to himself, swirling a glass of brandy in his hand. “And yet…” A faint smile curved his lips. “I don’t mind.”

He could tolerate manipulation, deceit, even betrayal, but only from her. Perhaps it was because he understood beauty too well, and Mayumi was beauty personified. Not the fragile, innocent kind. Hers was the kind that wounded, the kind that promised heaven and delivered ruin.

And ruin, Sinclair thought, had never looked so divine.

He wasn’t always like this.

As a child, Sinclair had been the pride of the Kornblume family, their golden heir, the embodiment of all they valued. The Kornblumes had always been obsessed with beauty. To them, appearance was not vanity; it was virtue. A flawless face reflected a flawless soul, they said.

“Perfection is power, Sinclair,” his mother once told him, brushing a strand of his pale hair away from his eyes. “And power ensures survival.”

Fortunately for her, Sinclair was born perfect, his hair like spun gold, his skin smooth as porcelain, and his eyes a striking shade of teal that seemed to glow beneath the light. The maids would whisper that he didn’t look human, but angelic.

Unfortunately, his twin brother was not so fortunate.

The boy, his parents never bothered to name him, had the same teal eyes and golden hair, but half of his face was grotesquely malformed. The right side was beautiful, identical to Sinclair’s, while the left looked melted, twisted by some cruel trick of fate.

Their parents hid him away from the world.

Sinclair didn’t even know he had a brother until one afternoon when he was eight. He had been wandering the gardens, sketchbook in hand, searching for the perfect flower to paint. The sun was high, the air heavy with the scent of lilies, when he caught sight of movement among the hedges.

A boy, about his age, crouched by a patch of roses, humming softly as he plucked at the petals.

Sinclair blinked. The boy’s hair was the same shade as his own. His skin, the same ivory tone. When the boy turned, Sinclair gasped.

Half of the face that met his gaze was his own.

The other half—

It wasn’t.

Before Sinclair could say a word, a group of his playmates, young girls from noble families who often came to visit, came running up the path.

“Sinclair! There you are!” one of them called, her ribbons fluttering in the wind.

Then they saw the boy.

The scream that followed tore through the garden like thunder.

The girls clung to each other, pointing, shrieking as if they had seen a monster. The disfigured boy stumbled backward, dropping the flower he had been holding. His mismatched face crumpled with shame.

Sinclair just stood there, frozen.

Later that night, he heard his brother’s screams echoing through the estate’s west wing. His father’s booming voice followed, furious, cruel, punishing.

From his own room, Sinclair sat trembling, hands clutched over his ears. His mother came to soothe him, stroking his hair with a gentle hand.

“It’s all right, my darling,” she whispered. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Who was that boy?” Sinclair asked quietly, though he already feared the answer.

Her smile didn’t waver, but her tone was sharp. “That boy is your shame. He was born imperfect, and imperfection must be hidden. Do you understand? We cannot allow anyone to see what would disgrace our name.”

“But…” Sinclair frowned. “Half of him looked just like me. The other half too, he’s still beautiful.”

Her hand stilled on his hair. For a moment, her carefully painted face cracked, revealing something darker beneath.

“You must never say that again.”

That night, the west wing went silent. 

The next time Sinclair saw his hidden twin was years later, when he was already in high school, tall, poised, and sculpted into the perfect image of a Kornblume heir. The world adored him; teachers praised his brilliance, girls trailed after him like moths to a flame, and his family boasted about his every achievement.

But beneath the polished surface, Sinclair’s mind was restless.

He had been working on a new painting for weeks, yet nothing satisfied him. Every girl who offered to sit for him, each one radiant and eager, was met with the same quiet rejection. Their faces were beautiful, yes, but empty.

He had long since learned to appreciate beauty the way one appreciates art: detached, technical, devoid of emotion. Beauty was structure, proportion, and control. Nothing more.

That afternoon, the sunlight filtered through the manor’s glass veranda as Sinclair sat before his easel, brush gliding across the canvas. He was painting a peony, lush and complex, the kind of flower that seemed to hide secrets within its folds.

The soft scratch of bristles against canvas filled the air.

Then, at the corner of his eye, movement.

Sinclair’s hand paused mid-stroke. Beyond the hedges, by the old willow near the fence, stood a figure; half in shadow, half in light.

The same face.

The same teal eyes.

But half of it, marred and broken.

Sinclair’s breath hitched, just for a second. His brush hovered above the canvas. He knew instantly who it was.

The nameless brother.