“Sin.”
The slap caught me off guard. My cheek stung, my body flinching before my brain caught up.
“What the fuck?”
She shrugged, unbothered, and pressed her head to my shoulder, wrapping an arm around me in a quick squeeze. “I called your name five times. You were staring into the void like a Victorian ghost bride.”
“Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”
“No biggy,” she murmured, releasing me. “Anyway, Claire’s roommates bailed on her. Said they’re going traveling or something. She either finds new people or loses the place.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah.” Her cheeks went pink. “So, uh… she asked me to move in.”
“That’s great, T.”
“Right?” she beamed, then swallowed. “It’s a big two-bedroom apartment. Bedrooms on opposite ends. Own bathrooms. Living room in the middle. Tons of space.”
I nodded, only half listening. My gaze drifted over the ridge, over the mosaic of greens and sunlit gardens below, where people lived easy, floral-scented lives.
“So… what do you think?”
“To what?”
She nudged me. “To you taking the second room?”
I blinked at her. “Wouldn’t I cramp your style?”
She rolled her eyes and punched my shoulder. “Don’t be a dick.”
I didn’t answer right away. Not because I didn’t want to. But because I did. Too much.
The idea of leaving that house—of not walking on eggshells in my own skin, of having somewhere that might actually feel like mine—was enough to make my throat close up.
But wanting something that badly felt dangerous.
Thalia must’ve seen it, the hesitation flickering behind my eyes. She didn’t push. She just leaned back, exhaling smoke into the morning air, and said, “Come see the place. If you hate it, I’ll never bring it up again.”
The rideto my aunt’s was quiet. Not tense—just heavy. The kind of silence that builds in the hollows between people when there’s too much to say and no energy left to say it.
We turned off the main road and up the winding driveway. The house loomed ahead, pristine and white, its Georgian columns casting long, accusatory shadows in the late afternoon sun. The side entrance came into view, the one reserved for staff and deliveries—a backdoor for the inconvenient parts of the household. Like me.
The lawn was edged so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. White roses flanked the front walkway in two perfect rows, their petals like little clenched fists. Even the flowers here felt like they were holding something back.
Thalia whistled low under her breath. “Jesus. Looks like a crime scene in a Nancy Meyers movie.”
“Don’t let the landscaping fool you,” I muttered. “The body’s still warm.”
She snorted. “Morbid. I like it.”
We followed the stone path toward the pool house, the one that had been converted into my ‘suite’—a nice word for the farthest possible corner she could shove me into without legally abandoning me.
“I’ve only been here a couple times,” Thalia said, her boots clicking on the stones. “Cocktail soirées. Charity luncheons. My mom in pearls. All the usual trauma.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“Oh, it was. I learned what pâté was and how to smile while being insulted by three women named Margot.”
