Chapter 2: Freedom
Jaycee’s P.O.V.
We got to the airport waiting for my flight to be called. “If you need anything Jaycee just call me.” Drake said as he hugged me. “Thanks Drake I will, but I should have everything that I need. My brothers will be with me.” “That is right you will be staying with them.. Is Riccardo picking you up?” “Yes, I’ll text you when I get to their house, well our house. It was left to the four of us when our parents died. It was an awful car accident.” “I am sorry Jaycee, for everything that you went through and is going through now. I just wish that I knew sooner what he was doing to you.” “He took my virginity, Drake, I wasn’t even ready, and he took it. I wanted to wait until we were married. I think that he is cheating on me, I mean what is with all these late-night meetings?’ “I don’t even know about them, sorry Jaycee.” “No don’t be, this isn’t your fault none of this is.”
“Oh, my flight.” “Goodbye, Jaycee.” He says as he kisses my cheek, before turning and walking away. I then grabbed my carry-on and went to wait at the gate for boarding. The three-hour plane ride to Chicago wasn’t too bad since I slept for most of it, I didn’t get any sleep the night before since I was busy packing my suitcases in too much of a rush to leave the penthouse before Bradley arrived home from whatever he was doing late that night. As I onboarded the plane and entered through the gate to the airport in New York City , a flutter of anticipation took hold of me. I clung to my boarding pass, feeling each step bringing me closer to a new chapter—and to Ricardo, my eldest brother and protector. Every memory of us together surfaced like gentle waves: Ricardo’s easy laughter, his way of listening without judgment, the warmth in his eyes when I needed reassurance.
I knew that as soon as I met up with him , he’d be there waiting, scanning the crowd for me, arms ready to pull me into a hug that wordlessly promised safety. Ricardo always checked up on me, whether by a quick text or a reassuring call, just to hear my voice and make sure I was all right. The thought of seeing him again made my pulse race—not just with relief, but with genuine excitement. After everything that had happened, the idea of being in his presence, hearing him ask “How are you really?” and meaning it, made the weight I’d been carrying feel a little lighter. There was comfort in knowing that he’d fuss over my bags, tease me about how little I slept, and urged me to eat or rest. But more than anything, I was thrilled to be with someone who cared enough to notice the small changes, to look for the truth behind the words I said. As the plane began to board, I smiled quietly, finally allowing myself to look forward to what awaited me at home—a place where Ricardo and our brothers would be waiting, ready to remind me that I was never truly alone.
The hum of the airport was a dull roar in my ears as I wheeled my suitcase through arrivals, every muscle taut with anticipation. I scanned the sea of faces, searching for the one that had anchored so many of my childhood memories. Then, there he was—Ricardo, standing just beyond the barrier, taller than I remembered, his eyes sweeping the crowd until they landed on me. A slow, incredulous smile broke across his face, and in two strides he was right in front of me. For a moment, we simply stared at each other, the years apart shrinking into nothing. Neither of us needed words.
Ricardo pulled me into a hug that was fierce and steady, arms wrapping around me like a shield. All the bottled-up loneliness, the ache of missing family, the exhaustion of pretending I was fine—all of it melted away in that embrace. He held me close, chin resting atop my head, and I felt his breath shudder, as if he too needed this reunion more than he could say. “Three years is much too long, little sis,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. I laughed, blinking back tears. “You promised you’d still recognize me,” I whispered, and he squeezed me tighter, as if to make up for all the lost time. “You’re still you, Jaycee. And you’re safe. That’s all that matters.” He stepped back just enough to look me over, his gaze soft but assessing—a brother’s inventory, making sure I was whole.
We stood there for a moment, words tumbling out in fits and starts—catching up on the smallest details, the small talk a feeble dam against the tide of relief. When he took my bag, I didn’t protest. I let him fuss, let him guide me toward the exit, let him carry a bit of the weight I’d borne alone. Outside, the world felt a little brighter, the city’s noise less harsh. With Ricardo by my side, I could finally believe that home wasn’t just a place, but this—this unconditional welcome, this quiet promise that I didn’t have to be alone anymore. As we drove away, Chicago’s skyline glimmered in the distance, and I let hope take root again, nourished by the warmth of my brother’s presence.
We pulled into the driveway and through the garage doors, once he turned of the engine I emerged from the front passenger seat. He grabs my luggage from the truck of his black sports car, which he has known to drive it in his street races, as we entered through the kitchen with Ricardo’s arm aroundmy shoulder we make our way into the living room, I didn’t noticed anyone laying on the couch or that the T.V. is on. I was too engrossed in the remolded part of the house that I just walked through.
As soon as we stepped inside, I was struck silently by the transformation that greeted me. The house still smelled faintly of childhood—coffee, lemon cleaner, the comforting undertone of something baking—but everything else felt brand new, as if I’d walked into a dream inspired by my memories but painted with bolder, brighter colors. The kitchen was unrecognizable, utterly remade from my recollections of linoleum floors and battered oak cabinets. Now, sunlight spilled across wide, gleaming countertops of veined marble, making the whole space seem to shimmer. Where our old, squeaky chairs had huddled around a wobbly table, there stood a long island with polished stools, their chrome legs catching the light.
The backsplash was a mosaic of pale blue glass, glinting like water, and sleek steel appliances lined the walls—quiet, dignified, a far cry from the clattering relics we’d grown up with. I ran a hand across the countertop’s cool surface and found myself grinning in disbelief. The living room, too, was transformed. Gone was the faded green carpet and the sagging sofa that had cradled so many rainy afternoons. In their place was a plush rug, soft and pale as clouds, anchoring a deep blue sectional that seemed to invite you to sink into its embrace. Large, sunlit windows drew the day inside, illuminating tasteful shelves filled with books and trailing plants. Art lined the walls—modern, vibrant, each piece speaking in color and form rather than nostalgia.
