Still, nothing.
She won’t answer. Won’t come out. She’s locked in whatever place her pain has trapped her in. And maybe she’s been there longer than I ever realized.
Dad is gone. And so is she, in her own way.
And whatever family we once were, it died with him.
I slide to the floor, back against the door, and let myself cry. For the man who held us together. For the home we never truly had. For everything I thought we could be, but never were.
I cry until I’m not sure there’s anything left to grieve.
Eventually, I pull myself up and cross the hall to my room.
I kick off my shoes. Climb into bed. Pull the blanket up like it might protect me from what’s already broken.
Tomorrow, I’ll pack. And then I’ll go back to California.
Because the truth is, we’ve all lived separate lives for a long time now. We just stopped pretending otherwise.
This house—this echo of what Dad tried so hard to make feel like home—was never enough.
And it never will be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Who Am I?
The California sun beats down on me as I stare at my overflowing inbox: 5,651 unread emails. Somewhere between the PR pitches and brand collab requests, I know there are at least three increasingly panicked messages from Edna.
I just… can’t.
I don’t have the energy to pretend I care. Not even for my manager.
It’s been three weeks since the funeral, and just getting out of my cold, echoing apartment took everything I had.
I didn’t brush my hair. Just tied it up, threw on sunglasses, and walked to the café down the street because sitting alone in my kitchen felt too loud.
Now I’m here, staring blankly at my laptop, feeling like a stranger in my own life. Like I slipped back into a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.
Even the air feels different here—filtered, perfumed, artificial. Nothing smells like pine or sawdust or rain on gravel anymore.
"Elowen!"
I hear my name and resist the urge to duck.
I glance up and spot them. Sierra Darling, beauty mogul with a surgically perfected smile, and Lyla Monroe, wellness queen with a net worth built on green juice and guilt.
They’re draped in shopping bags, glowing from some influencer event or sponsored spree. And suddenly, I can’t tell if I envy them or pity them.
Sierra slides into the seat across from me while Lyla leans against the table, posing like the cameras never stop.
"We heard about your dad," Sierra says, her voice sticky-sweet. She reaches out and pats my hand. "So sorry, love."
Love? We’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances. We’re mutually beneficial brand alignments.
"Thanks," I say as I cross my arms.
"But," Lyla cuts in, "we saw the collab with Big Belle."
