Bianca's apartment was everything mine wasn't.
Twenty-third floor of a luxury building in the Financial District. Despite my infrequent visits, the doorman knew my name. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views that probably cost more per month than my annual rent. Modern furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable. Nothing warm, nothing personal, nothing that said "home."
Father's money had bought this place. Father's connections had gotten her the job at his company that paid for the lifestyle. Father's will had orchestrated the engagement that would cement his alliance with the Monti family.
I'd chosen the opposite path. Student loans for art school and teaching gigs that barely covered rent. A studio apartment where I slept ten feet from where I painted. Independence that came with a side of constant financial stress.
But it was mine.Mychoices.Mylife.
The elevator opened directly into her apartment—that kind of money, that kind of building. I knocked anyway, some instinct telling me not to just walk in.
Bianca opened the door before I could knock twice. Like she'd been waiting by it.
"Paola. Hi." Her voice came out strained, thin. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as if she'd been crying for hours.
"Bianca?" I stepped inside immediately, concern flooding through me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I mean—" She closed the door behind me. Locked it. Her hands shook as she turned the deadbolt. "I just needed to see you."
"You're scaring me. What happened?"
I looked around her apartment, trying to understand. The curtains were drawn despite the beautiful morning light outside. All the blinds closed. The space felt dim, suffocating, wrong.
And there on the glass coffee table: champagne. An expensive-looking bottle, already opened. Two crystal flutes waiting.
"Champagne?" I gestured to it, confused. "At ten in the morning? Bianca, what are we celebrating?"
"I just—" Her voice cracked. "I wanted to have a drink with my sister. Is that so strange?"
Yes. Yes, it was strange. Bianca never day-drank. Bianca was controlled, composed, perfect. Father's ideal daughter in every way I'd never been.
But she looked like she was barely holding herself together.
"Talk to me." I moved toward her, reaching for her hand. "Please. You're crying. Something's obviously wrong—"
"Let's just have a drink first, okay?" She pulled away, moved to the coffee table with jerky, unnatural movements. "Then we'll talk."
She poured champagne into both glasses. Her hands trembled so badly liquid sloshed over the rim, pooling on the glass table.
"Bianca—"
"Please." She thrust a glass toward me, desperation clear in her red-rimmed eyes. "Just—just drink with me. Please, Paola."
I took the glass because I didn't know what else to do. My sister was falling apart in front of me, and I'd never seen her like this. Vulnerable. Desperate. Almost manic in her need for me to stay, to drink, to not ask questions.
"Okay," I said softly. "Okay. But then you tell me what's going on."
She nodded. Raised her own glass with a shaking hand. "To sisters."
"To sisters," I echoed, watching her carefully.
The champagne tasted slightly bitter. Not bad, exactly, just… off. I made a face. "When did you open this? It tastes—"
"It's fine. Just—just drink it." She was crying now. Silent tears streaming down her face, cutting through expensive makeup that was probably supposed to hide the fact that she'd been crying all morning.
"Bianca, what is going on—"
"I need you to know something first." Her voice broke completely. "I love you. You're my sister. My twin. Nothing changes that."
