CHAPTER 1
Paola
Istood back from the canvas, paintbrush balanced between my fingers, studying the way morning light caught the edges of the half-finished piece. Three months of work, and I still couldn't get the shadows right.
The problem was the window. Or maybe it was me. I'd been trying to capture the exact quality of early morning light as it spilled across my studio apartment—that brief golden hour when everything looked softer, more forgiving. But something was off. The contrast too harsh. The warmth not quite there.
I dabbed more yellow ochre onto my palette, mixed it with a touch of white. Tried again. The brush moved across canvas in short, careful strokes.
Better. Maybe.
My phone buzzed on the table beside my easel. I ignored it, focused on the light. Saturday mornings were sacred—the only time I had to work on my own art instead of teaching other people's kids how to hold a brush properly.
Not that I minded teaching. I loved watching teenagers discover they could create something beautiful, loved the moment when a struggling student finally understood perspective or color theory. But this—my canvas, my vision, my quiet Saturday mornings—this was mine.
The phone buzzed again, insistent.
I sighed and set down the brush. Probably Anna canceling our afternoon coffee. She did that when she was drowning in student essays, which was basically always. Being an English teacher meant perpetual grading hell.
But the screen showed Bianca's name.
My twin. Who I hadn't really talked to in months, not since Father announced her engagement to some Monti heir. Some strategic alliance that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with power and territory and things I'd chosen to stay far away from.
Can you come over? Need to talk. Important.
I stared at the message. Bianca didn't do "need to talk." She did "handle everything herself" and "don't ask for help" and "I'm fine" even when she clearly wasn't.
Everything okay?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Please? Just come. I need my sister.
The words made my chest tight. When was the last time Bianca had needed me? When was the last time she'd even wanted to see me?
We'd been close once. Inseparable, actually. Identical twins who shared everything—clothes, secrets, that weird twintelepathy people always asked about but which actually existed. We'd known what the other was thinking, feeling, wanting.
But that was before. Before Father's world pulled her in one direction and I'd deliberately run in the other way. Before she'd accepted her role in his organization and I'd chosen art school and teaching and a cramped studio apartment that was mine.
Before she'd gotten engaged to a man she'd never mentioned, never introduced me to, never even seemed to know beyond his last name.
Be there in 20.
I looked at my painting. The light would be gone in an hour anyway, and the angle just might be wrong; the magic moment had passed. I could come back to it tomorrow. Start fresh with new eyes.
Maybe Bianca wanted to talk about the wedding. What were the chances she was having second thoughts about marrying a stranger for Father's benefit? Perhaps she wanted my opinion, wanted someone to tell her she didn't have to do this.
Or maybe—and this was the hope I was afraid to acknowledge—maybe she just missed me. Missed us. Missed being sisters instead of strangers living parallel lives in the same city.
I cleaned my brushes quickly, changed out of my paint-stained t-shirt into something presentable. Jeans, a soft sweater Anna had given me for my birthday. Comfortable but not sloppy.
This was just my sister wanting to see me. We’d reconnect, possibly rebuild what we’d lost.
I grabbed my keys and headed out into the April morning, locking my apartment behind me.
The light was beautiful outside—that perfect spring clarity that made the city look almost magical. I'd be back soon. Back to my canvas and my quiet life and my autonomous, uncomplicated existence.
I had no idea I'd never set foot in that apartment again.
