Rebirth: Love me Again

[EVE]

I never thought being loved could be . . . exhausting.

Like, don't get me wrong. The idea of a warm, supportive family sounds wonderful—until they're spoon-feeding you mango slices because you looked "emotionally pale" after waking up from a nap.

Yes. That happened.

To be fair, I wasn't used to this level of affection. Growing up, my idea of a family hug involved someone awkwardly patting me on the back before urgently checking their calendar.

But now? Now I had brothers practically battling for the title of "Most Overprotective Sibling of the Year." My father had suddenly decided I was some fragile relic dipped in 24-karat gold, flinching every time I so much as stubbed a toe. My mother? Oh, she refused to leave my side—even when I took a bath. No joke. She'd camp outside the shower like a bodyguard-slash-spy, convinced I might get kidnapped mid-shampoo. And all the while, she wore that perfectly stoic, high-society villainess expression, like she was silently judging the soap. As for the staff? They stared at me like I farted rainbows and cried glitter. I didn't know whether to feel flattered, concerned, or mildly gassy.

And I'd been back for what—three weeks?

Three weeks since the whole "Hey, surprise, you're actually a long-lost Frizkiel!" bomb dropped and my entire life turned into an emotional K-drama with unlimited budget.

Let me give you an actual snapshot of my morning:

I woke up to the sound of a harp.

A harp.

Not an alarm clock, not the sound of birds chirping, not even the sound of a toilet flushing down the hall. A harp. Apparently, Dante—my second brother/personal bodyguard and walking sculpture—thought I'd sleep better if I was lulled awake by classical music performed live by a harpist they flew in. From Vienna. Because "she has the softest wrists in the industry."

I mean, what the hell is that even supposed to mean?

And just as I sat up, trying to remember if I was dreaming or had overdosed on lavender oil again, the door burst open and in came my older brother Damien—six-foot-five of chiseled, armor-wearing, battle-hardened royalty—carrying a tray of freshly baked pastries and a smoothie "blessed by the court nutritionist."

"Good morning, sunshine," he said, like I was a five-year-old and not a grown woman with anxiety and a mild caffeine addiction. "We're having brunch in the east garden today. I've canceled all my meetings to join you."

"All of them?" I croaked, half-choked on a piece of croissant.

He nodded. "You're more important."

Then he reached forward to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear and I short-circuited.

WHO WAS THIS MAN AND WHERE DID MY GRUMPY, EMOTIONALLY STUNTED BROTHER GO?

That's what I thought of him the first time I saw him.

And it didn't stop there.

Later that day, I caught my third brother Dean—the same guy who found me—arguing with the guards because he wanted to be the one to carry my shopping bags. Which, by the way, only had lip balm and one very overpriced sheet mask in them.

I heard him say, "Eve, you've been through so much. Don't hold back or be shy—big brother will buy you everything you need. More lip gloss? Sheet masks? How about skin care? Do you have enough of those? In fact, why don't I just buy the whole makeup store so you never run out of supplies again?"

". . ." He was sweet but over the top, just like everyone in my family.

Then came the night dinners.

Apparently, family bonding was now mandatory. I wasn't allowed to eat in my room or "in solitude like a melancholy pigeon," as my father dramatically put it. We had candlelit dinners every evening, complete with four courses, live music (because apparently everything needed live music now), and awkward silences when someone inevitably brought up "the past we lost."

Oh! And they all gave up their jobs. Or paused them just to be with me.

Father refused to take meetings that weren't "about Eve's future," and Damien had moved his meetings into the next room so he could be closer in case I needed anything. Like what? Emergency gossip relief? A tissue? An opinion on the chicken?

And Dante? Dante started taking martial arts classes. For me.

"I want to be the kind of man worthy of guarding you," he said solemnly, as if I hadn't already seen him elbow a man in the face at a Starbucks because they cut in line.

I was so overwhelmed, I nearly cried into my truffle risotto.

Like seriously—do you know what it's like to go from being treated like a side character in your own life to suddenly being the star of the family reality show?

They had a literal committee to approve my gowns now. They set up a spa in my bedroom. I had twelve pillows on my bed, each designed for a different sleeping posture, and I swear one of them had built-in essential oils that changed based on the moon cycle.

I know I sound ungrateful, and maybe a little dramatic (okay, very dramatic), but I honestly didn't know what to do with all this . . . love. This loud, constant, slightly suffocating love.

And they were all so gentle. Even when I accidentally broke the royal heirloom vase because I tripped over a fluffy slipper (yes, fluffy slippers are a weapon of chaos), everyone just gasped—then immediately comforted me.

"It was ugly anyway," Damien said.

"I'll replace it with something better," Dean added.

"It's time to replace that thing," Dante said in a flat, emotionless voice, like it wasn't his favorite antique just days ago. "It's better if it gets destroyed before it has the chance to hurt you."

Are you really the most sought-after doctor in the country? I wanted to snap at him. Because right now, you're acting completely illogical.

My father just waved it off like I had just sneezed too loudly, not destroyed a 600-year-old artifact.

My mother merely shot the vase a cold glare before hurrying to my side, checking me over as if I'd just survived a war.

At this rate, even if I had burned the whole house they wouldn't care.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

So I did both.

In the bathtub.

Which was already filled and waiting for me with rose petals, chamomile steam, and an instrumental version of "Careless Whisper" playing in the background because Dean thought it would "lighten my mood."

I had turned into a luxury tamagotchi. A real-life princess pamper-pet.

And you know what? Deep down—I kind of loved it.

Not because of the harp or the silk robes or the thousand-thread-count sheets (though let's not lie, those helped). But because for the first time in my life, I felt like someone would actually notice if I disappeared.

That I mattered.

Even if I still wasn't used to Damien rubbing my head like I was a kitten, or Dante ordering the chefs to "hide vitamin C in all of Eve's food because she's been sneezing weird." And even if Dean brought me all kind of things, like mostly luxury brands things everyday.

Even if I had to attend "Eve Appreciation Brunches" twice a week, complete with a slideshow and speeches about my "inner light."

They were trying. In their weird, over-the-top, completely unhinged way—they were really, really trying to make it up for the years I had been lost.

And that . . . that was enough to make my chest feel full in a way that had nothing to do with food.

So this was what a real family felt like—loving, warm, endlessly concerned, and completely over the top. Brothers who constantly wanted to be by my side, even competing with each other for my attention. It was chaotic, suffocating in the most affectionate way—but it was real. They were my real family. And for the first time in my life, I felt truly safe, deeply content, and genuinely happy.

But of course, if they tried to tuck me in again tonight, I might throw someone out the window.