Outside, the city streaked past the tinted glass as Holt’s newest email lit my screen.
Ms. Sinclair—I find myself curious about Elion’s culture. How do you maintain vision when growth demands compromise?
Each word carried weight, deliberate and measured. A question posed like a test.
“We’re arriving, Ms. Sinclair.”
The car slowed as Elion’s headquarters rose into view—twenty-three floors of glass and steel, polished and reflective, built to signal certainty even when it was earned daily.
Cooled air cut through the morning haze as I stepped inside. The lobby buzzed to life around me—clipped conversations, heels striking marble, polished greetings exchanged in passing. I moved through it without breaking stride, addressing people by name. Their familiar smiles centered me, a quiet reminder of what I was fighting to protect.
Upstairs, fresh white roses and seeded eucalyptus brightened my office. I’d tried to make the space feel like home—rich tones, warm wood, greenery softening every corner.
It looked serene.
It never was.
Just like me.
Moments later, Kevin, Jennifer, and David slipped into the conference room, focus settling in around them, focused and aligned.
“Damien Holt called three days ago,” I said, sliding documents across the table. “The Falkirk meeting is mid-May. We lock our approach now, or next quarter’s forecast reads like an obituary.”
“Three Falkirk-affiliated companies hit our inquiry form this week,” Jennifer said. “He’s probing.”
David leaned forward. “I’ll reach out to outside counsel. See if there’s internal traction.”
“I’ll check with shared vendors,” Kevin added. “Any shift in stack or tempo matters.”
I looked at each of them in turn. “We stop reacting. We move first. Falkirk plays our game before the call even starts.”
The next several hours blurred into buffers, counterpoints, recalibrations. By the time the meeting broke, something unresolved clung to me—a residue I couldn’t quite shake.
Outside, Manhattan moved the way it always did. Cars edged forward. Voices rose and fell. Sunlight flashed against glass. I let the noise cut through the static, just long enough to feel present again.
Nona’s was six blocks away—a ten-minute walk through the restless grid of the city. I wove between strangers, their laughter brushing past me, light and unburdened. Carefree in a way that felt distant now.
Sunlight spilled across the café windows as I reached the door.
Candace sat in the corner.
Golden-blond hair, bright as spun honey. Blue eyes above a button nose. Pink lips that never needed liner. Cheekbones contour couldn’t improve. The kind of fine-boned beauty photographers gravitated toward without being asked.
Even in leggings and sneakers, she looked effortless—magazine-ready without trying.
Just like always.
From the beginning, Candace had drawn attention the way some people breathe. In school, she was noticed for her beauty, her laughter, her ease. I was noticed for my opinions. For the ink smudged on my fingers. For taking up space in conversations that didn’t invite it.
When she sat with me at lunch, whispers followed anyway.
Charity case.
Pity friend.
But she’d never left. Through grief and heartbreak, through my parents’ divorce and her own unraveling, she stayed. Somewhere along the way—between survival and reinvention—we stopped being friends and became sisters.
Not by blood.
