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Meeting the Sister
Last Updated:
2025-03-15 04:24:44
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I arrived at Bistro Lucien twenty minutes early, a habit ingrained from years with Daniel who considered tardiness a personal insult. The lunch crowd hadn't materialized yet, giving me my pick of tables. I chose one by the window—good lighting, clear view of both entrances, easy exit if needed. Old survival instincts die hard."Just water for now," I told the waiter. "I'm waiting for someone."My fingers drummed nervously on the tablecloth as I checked my phone again. No messages from Sarah canceling. No threats from Daniel. No apologies from Alex. Just the time—11:42—and my racing thoughts.Three days had passed since the surprise meeting at Thorne. Three days of vacillating between excitement about Paris and paralyzing fear that it was all some elaborate trap. Three days of Olivia reassuring me that Lumière Gallery was legitimate, prestigious, and—most importantly—financially independent from Thorne Designs."Their connection is purely familial," she'd said, showing me articles and
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I thought of his face when I'd confronted him about the investigation—not defensive or angry, but genuinely pained at having hurt me. It didn't excuse what he'd done, but it added a dimension I'd been reluctant to acknowledge."Enough about my brother," Sarah declared, clearly sensing my discomfort. "Let's talk Paris. If you accept the showcase offer, you'd come for eight weeks. We'd provide an apartment, studio space, materials budget, and a stipend."My pulse quickened at the concrete details, making the opportunity real in a way it hadn't been before. "And I'd have complete creative control?""Absolutely. Our role is support, not direction. We help with production resources, technical challenges, and of course, publicity and sales." She leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement. "Maya, your work could be in major European collections by spring. We're talking career-changing exposure."I took a deep breath, allowing myself to imagine it. My name, my vision, recognized internationa
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"That's my ex," I said quietly. "The one I told you about."Sarah's expression hardened. "Want me to stay? I'm pretty good at telling men to fuck off."The offer was tempting, but I'd spent too long hiding behind others' protection. "I'll handle it," I said, gathering my purse. "But thanks.""At least take my number," Sarah insisted, scribbling on the back of another business card. "Call me if you need anything. And I mean anything."I tucked the card away, touched by her concern. "I'll be fine. And Sarah? Thank you for lunch. For everything.""We're not done," she assured me with a smile. "I'm in town for a week, and I intend to convince you about Paris before I leave."I stepped out of the car, straightening my shoulders as I prepared to face Daniel. Sarah waited, engine idling, making sure I reached the sidewalk safely before pulling away with a small wave.Daniel spotted me immediately, pushing off from his car with practiced nonchalance. His eyes flickered to Sarah's departing co
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Sarah's business card lay on my kitchen table, mocking me with its elegant simplicity. I'd smoothed out the wrinkles from my earlier breakdown, though the creases remained—permanent reminders of damaged possibilities. My finger traced the embossed lettering as I stared at her number, the phone heavy in my other hand.One call. One fucking call to change the trajectory of my life. All I had to do was say yes.Except I couldn't.The memory of Daniel's video burned behind my eyelids every time I blinked. The way my face had looked on that screen—glassy-eyed, vulnerable, stripped of all defenses. Not just physically naked, but emotionally exposed in a way that made me want to crawl out of my skin.Bali. Our third anniversary. Daniel had surprised me with the trip, playing the devoted husband with such conviction that I'd almost believed we were happy."Just us," he'd whispered on the plane, his fingers tangled possessively in my hair. "No distractions, no work. Just my beautiful wife and
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The empty apartment closed in around me, every surface a reminder of what Daniel had taken. My designs on the wall. My beaded lamp I'd rescued from the break-in. My life, still circumscribed by his influence even after I'd escaped.Fuck this. Fuck him. I wasn't going to just sit here and marinate in self-pity.I grabbed my laptop and settled grimly at the kitchen table. If Paris was off the table, I needed a regular job. Something stable, with a steady paycheck to cover rent and Mami Lulu's care.Four hours and seventeen applications later, I'd received three automated rejections, two "we'll keep your resume on file" responses, and a stunning silence from the rest. Even entry-level positions at second-tier design houses seemed beyond reach—Daniel's influence tainting my prospects with methodical precision.By early afternoon, claustrophobia drove me from the apartment. I needed to see Mami Lulu—the one person in my life untouched by Daniel's machinations, even if she barely remembered
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Alex straightened as I approached, hands shoved deep in his pockets, expression carefully neutral. My steps faltered as our eyes met, but there was nowhere to retreat."Maya," he said, voice low and controlled. "We need to talk.""No, we don't." I moved to step around him, fumbling for my keys. "I have nothing to say to you.""Then just listen." He didn't touch me, didn't block my path, but his presence felt like a physical barrier nonetheless. "Sarah told me you turned down the Paris offer."Of course she had. Because nothing in my life could remain private, could stay my decision alone."And?" I finally found my keys, gripping them tightly enough to leave imprints on my palm."Why?" The single word carried more weight than a paragraph of accusations. "It's everything you've been working toward.""Maybe I changed my mind," I said, voice deliberately flat. "People do that.""Not you. Not about this." His eyes searched my face, seeing too much, understanding too little. "Something happ
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The envelope from Sunset Valley Care Center sat unopened on my counter for two days, its official logo like a bright red warning sign. I didn't need to read it to know what it said—I was three months behind on payments, and their patience was wearing thin. The phone calls had made that clear enough.I finally tore it open while drinking my morning coffee, a luxury I couldn't really afford anymore but refused to give up. My last remaining fuck-you to financial reality.Final Notice: Payment Required Within 7 DaysThe letter outlined the consequences in polite, sanitized language that couldn't hide the brutal truth: pay up or we move your mother to a state facility. I'd visited one of those places when first arranging Mami Lulu's care. Overcrowded, understaffed, with that unmistakable smell of neglect barely masked by industrial disinfectant.I couldn't let that happen. Not to the woman who'd raised me, loved me, taught me everything that mattered.With shaking hands, I spread my bills
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Outside his office, I bypassed the elevator in favor of the stairwell, needing movement, exertion, anything to burn off the toxic cocktail of rage and helplessness consuming me from the inside.I burst into the lobby, gulping humid air that barely qualified as fresh but at least didn't taste like Daniel's expensive cologne. My hands trembled as I fumbled with my visitor badge, eager to remove any trace of my connection to this place."Maya? Maya Russo?"I turned at the sound of my name, confusion momentarily displacing distress. A woman approached—vaguely familiar, with short-cropped dark hair and intelligent eyes behind chunky glasses."It's Zoe," she said, registering my blank expression. "Zoe Chen? From Parsons?"Recognition clicked. "Oh my god, Zoe. It's been—""Seven years, at least," she finished, grinning. "What are you doing here? Wait, stupid question. You're married to Daniel Russo." Her eyes flicked to my bare ring finger. "Or...were?""Were," I confirmed. "We're separated.
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A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. One of the staff, not bothering to wait for an answer before entering."Phone call for you, Fiona. Your mother."I followed her to the communal phone, accepting the receiver with a practiced neutral expression."Hello, Mother.""Fiona." Caroline's voice was tight, controlled. "How are you progressing?""Excellently. I'm journaling my feelings and embracing sobriety one day at a time."The sarcasm was thick enough to spread on toast, but Caroline ignored it, as she ignored anything unpleasant that couldn't be fixed with money or public relations."Good. We've arranged for you to stay at The Residence when you're released next week. It's a transitional living facility for people in recovery. Very discreet.""I thought I'd be coming home." I knew the answer even as I said it."That wouldn't be best for your recovery." The practiced line of someone who'd consulted experts for the right way to abandon their child. "Besides, your father and I are
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I hurled the notebook across the room, my carefully maintained composure cracking. The soccer mom—Tracy? Stacy?—jumped in her bed, eyes wide with alarm."Sorry," I muttered. "Bad memory."She nodded with the instant forgiveness of the perpetually frightened and turned back to her recovery romance novel.I closed my eyes, but the memories kept coming. The day my parents brought Maya "home." The press conference, the tearful reunion carefully staged for maximum emotional impact. Me, standing to the side, watching Caroline Kingston touch Maya's face with a reverence she'd never shown me."Look at you," she'd whispered. "You have your grandmother's eyes. We thought we'd never see them again."I'd given interviews, playing the ecstatic sister. I'd shared my room, my clothes, my parents. I'd shown her the family business, introduced her to industry contacts I'd cultivated for years. All while watching Caroline and Robert orbit around her like she was the sun and I was just some distant, dis
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FionaThe white walls of the rehab center wouldn't stop spinning. Thirty days sober and I still couldn't get my balance. The therapist said it would pass, but what the fuck did she know? She hadn't lost everything in one night.I studied my reflection in the bathroom mirror. They'd taken my makeup during the "contraband check," claiming the compact mirror was a "cutting risk." As if I'd slice my wrists with a cheap plastic mirror. If I wanted to die, I'd do it with style. Nothing half-assed for Fiona Kingston.Kingston. I traced the outline of my face, searching for traces of them in my features. Was my nose Robert's? My eyes Caroline's? I'd spent years finding family resemblance where there was none."You're making excellent progress, Fiona." Dr. Levine's voice echoed in my head, that patronizing tone she used when lying to make patients feel better. "These breakthrough revelations about your adoption are painful but necessary for healing."Breakthrough. Like I hadn't known since I w
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I left without waiting for her response, clutching my earnings—just over six hundred dollars—and my remaining jewelry. Instead of heading directly to my truck, I ducked into the general store and waited near the window, watching the street. The SUV had disappeared, but my nerves remained on high alert.After fifteen minutes with no sign of the vehicle, I hurried to my truck and drove back to the cabin, taking two wrong turns just to make sure I wasn't followed.Back at the cabin, I tried to research "Vega technique" and "Lupe Vega" online, but the internet connection was spotty at best, and my searches yielded little useful information. A few obscure references to innovative glass bead techniques from the 1980s. A mention in an archived design magazine about "promising newcomer Lupe Vega." Nothing that definitively connected this designer to my Mami
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I spent the afternoon gathering supplies, then worked through the night preparing pieces for the fair. I created six more complete jewelry sets, each built around those distinctive spiral beads. By dawn, I had enough inventory to fill a small display, if not a full booth.I arrived at the square precisely at eight, carrying a folding table I'd found in the cabin's shed and a wooden tray that displayed my pieces against dark velvet. A few other vendors were already setting up, arranging pottery or paintings or handwoven textiles. Eleanor pointed me to a corner spot beneath a massive oak tree, the dappled shade perfect for displaying jewelry without harsh glare."You have your own table. Good." Her tone was clipped, but not unfriendly. "Need anything else?""I'm all set, thanks."She nodded and moved on, but I noticed her watching me from time to time as I arranged my pieces. Something about her attention felt oddly specific, though I couldn't place why.I wondered if she recognized me.
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Two weeks passed in a blur. I'd fallen into a routine that felt both new and achingly familiar. Wake with the sun. Coffee on the porch. Hike the overgrown trails that surrounded the cabin until my legs ached. Sketch whatever caught my eye—a particular twist of tree branch, the pattern of lichen on stone, the way light filtered through pine needles. Then work with glass until my fingers were raw and my back screamed from hunching over the flame.I'd cleaned out the workshop properly now, scrubbing years of dust and grime from every surface. I'd cataloged all the supplies, surprised by how much Mami Lulu had left behind. Hundreds of glass rods in every imaginable color. Tools in pristine condition, despite the years of neglect. A small kiln that, miraculously, still worked when I plugged it into the generator I'd bought during my first supply run to town.The cabin itself had transformed too. I'd scrubbed every surface, repaired what I could with my limited skills, and arranged my meage
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I spent the next several hours continuing the cleaning I'd started yesterday—more sweeping, more scrubbing, removing sheets from the bedroom furniture I hadn't gotten to yet. After more fiddling with the water system, I finally located the main valve outside and, after several attempts, managed to get the old pipes to deliver rust-colored water that eventually ran clear. The electricity was another matter—apparently disconnected long ago—but I'd come prepared with battery-powered lanterns and the camping stove I'd used last night.By mid-afternoon, I was filthy, sweaty, and oddly satisfied. The bedroom was now reasonably clean to match the progress I'd made in the main room yesterday, the bathroom was functional if primitive, and I'd aired out more of the musty odor. My arms ached from scrubbing and carrying water, but the physical exhaustion felt good—clarifying, somehow.I dragged an old wooden chair onto the front porch and collapsed into it, watching as the sun began its descent t
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MayaI woke with a start, disoriented by the unfamiliar shadows cast across rough-hewn beams. For a moment, panic seized me—where the hell was I? Then the scent registered: pine, wood smoke, and something else—something that tugged at memories buried so deep they felt more like dreams than lived experience.The cabin. My cabin.Sunlight filtered through the windows I'd wiped down yesterday, catching dust particles that still danced in the early morning light despite my cleaning efforts. The fire I'd built last night had died to embers, leaving a slight chill in the air. Now, in the revealing daylight, I saw my childhood home properly, the areas I hadn't managed to clean yet standing in stark contrast to the parts I'd already restored.It was smaller than I remembered. Childhood memories have a way of making everything seem larger, more expansive. But the essentials were exactly as they'd lived in my mind: the stone fireplace dominating one wall, the rough wooden table beneath the east
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AlexI made it to my car before my composure cracked. Sitting behind the wheel, I slammed my palm against it hard enough to hurt, cursing under my breath. I'd handled that all wrong. Again.The look on Maya's face when I admitted hiring a PI—pure betrayal. Rage. Fear. All justified.I started the engine but didn't move, just sat there staring up at the lights of her apartment building. She'd tried to slap me. Again. I couldn't blame her."Not investigating you anymore." Christ. As if stopping was some kind of favor I'd done her. No wonder she'd exploded.The envelope of evidence sat on the passenger seat where I'd placed a second copy before heading up to her apartment. I'd known she might destroy the first one. Might not believe me. Might throw me out.I'd been right about all of it, and still managed to fuck up the execution completely.The dashboard clock read 8:47 PM. Not even nine, but I felt as if I'd aged a decade in the last forty minutes. I pulled away from the curb, forcing
