I let out a disbelieving laugh, my head falling back against the couch as further relief crashes over me, warm and comforting. I’ve spent the last twelve hours thinking I’d failed her, that my principles had cost her everything. But she saved herself with talent. And initiative. And yes, the before-and-after photos of my shameful bachelor pad.
“Claire,” I murmur, my throat doing that thing where it pretends to be smaller than it is. “I’m so damn proud of you.”
“I can’t believe it,” she admits, sniffling on the other end. “After everything—I actually did it.”
I shake my head, wiping at eyes that have sprung leaks. “I should have never doubted you.”
We laugh together, our voices shaking like leaves in an emotional windstorm.
A knock at the door interrupts our celebration.
Claire hears it through the phone. “Is that Petra at your door?”
I exhale, suddenly grounded back in reality. I’d spent hours preparing for a conversation that would destroy everything. Now I don’t have to have it at all.
“Are you gonna tell her? About all of this?”
I glance toward the door, considering. I could tell Petra everything: the lies, the cover-up, Bunny’s ultimatum, my choice. Lay it all out like evidence at a trial nobody asked for. But what would that accomplish now? Claire got in legitimately. Petra will be thrilled. The messy middle part—the lies and threats and impossible choices—what purpose would revealing them serve?
Sometimes the truth isn’t noble. Sometimes it’s just selfish, a way to transfer your guilt to someone else’s shoulders.
“What matters is that Claire Montgomery is moving to New York to attend Parsons in the fall,” I say, my voice warm with certainty. “That’s the only story that needs to be told.”
Claire is quiet for a beat, processing this gift of selective amnesia. Then she lets out a breathy laugh.
“You know what? I think you’re right.”
“Of course I am,” I say, because even in emotional moments, my ego needs feeding.
The knock comes again, impatient now. Petra, wondering why I’m taking so long to answer my own door. I stand up, my heart finally light enough to remember what normal feels like.
“See you soon, Parsons girl.”
“See you soon, Liam…and thank you.”
“For what? You did it, Claire.”
“Thank you for having such a dismal apartment that enabled me to fix it up and show everyone what I’m capable of.”
I smile. “You’re welcome.”
I hang up then hurry to the front door. For the first time in weeks, everything feels exactly as it should be. Not perfect—perfect is for people who don’t understand how messy life actually is. But right. Correct. Like the universe just issued an apology for the chaos and decided to balance the books.
Sometimes you don’t get the victory you planned for. Sometimes you get something better: the victory you didn’t know was possible. Claire earned her spot at Parsons not through manipulation or connections but through talent and Instagram’s mysterious algorithm.
And the secret? The lie that started everything? It gets to die quietly, unmoored, taking all its complicated ethics with it to the grave. Some truths, I’m learning, are better left unspoken. Not because they’re not true, but because their time has passed, and revealing them now would be like performing CPR on something that needs to stay dead.
Petra doesn’t need to know her sister lied. Claire doesn’t need to carry that guilt. And me? I get to keep this secret like a scar that’s healed over, still there if you know where to look, but no longer defining.
Chapter Thirty
I ’m staring at my front door when Petra’s third knock arrives—a sharp three-beat rhythm that suggests patience wearing thin. I exhale slowly, gathering myself.
She stands there wrapped in camel-colored wool, her blue eyes performing an immediate diagnostic scan of my face. She’s not anxious, but she’s got that edge people get when they’ve spent all day preparing for impact.
“I tried to keep myself busy,” she says, stepping inside. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about this. About whatever it is you wanted to talk about.”
I could tell her. Probably should tell her. Full disclosure, clean conscience, all that moral high ground stuff. But Claire got into Parsons on merit. The crisis reversed itself. The lie became retroactively true. What would exposing it accomplish now except hurt? Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is shut up.
