“You know the shape of me,” Iris says, dropping her voice like it’s a secret. “You know what it’s like to be built wrong and blamed for it.”
Built wrong.
My stomach turns, not fear, not anger—recognition. And recognition feels too much like surrender.
“I don’t get blamed for anything anymore,” I say.
Her gaze skims my face like she’s reading a script only she has. “Sure. The world loves you. For now.”
“Is that supposed to threaten me?”
“It’s supposed to remind you how fast love turns,” Iris says. “Ask any fallen celebrity. Ask any woman who was a saint until she became inconvenient.”
I keep my tone light. “You’ve been binge-watching my life.”
“I’ve been studying you.”
“That’s creepier.”
She doesn’t deny it. She takes a careful sip, sets the cup down like punctuation. “You curate. You spin. You make things disappear in plain sight. It’s… art.”
My smile sharpens. “And you think we’re sisters because you admire me.”
“I think we’re sisters because we share roots,” Iris says. “And because I know things.”
“Like what?”
She leans in. “Like your father.”
The word lands like a cheap shot—like a fist thrown by someone who knows where the bruises hide.
I keep my voice bored. “What about him?”
“He’s walking around like he’s redeemed,” she says with a flare of anger. “Like he didn’t ruin lives.”
I watch her now, more carefully. “You don’t know him. Not really.”
“I know what he is.”
I laugh once, sharp. “Adorable. You write me a dramatic letter about a man you barely know.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t call it dramatic.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask again, slower.
Her smile returns, thinner. “I want family.”
She saysfamilythe way other people sayweapon.
“Family,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
I study her face. “That’s a joke.”
“It’s not.”
“You don’t know me,” I say. “You don’t love me. You don’t want family. You want access.”
