Chapter 7 - The Desperation at the Door
It was a Tuesday afternoon when the security intercom buzzed in the penthouse lobby.
“Miss Celeste Vale is downstairs, Madame,” the head security guard reported over the encrypted comms. “She refuses to leave. She’s demanding to speak with you.”
Serena, who was working on a custom tiara commission for an upcoming charity gala, sighed, set down her loupe, and pressed the button. “Send her up.”
Ten minutes later, the elevator doors opened directly into the private foyer of the penthouse.
Celeste looked like a ghost of her former self. Her designer coat was rumpled, her hair unwashed, and her eyes red-rimmed from days of crying. When she saw the sprawling, marble-floored expanse of the penthouse with its panoramic views of the Boston skyline, her breath caught in her throat.
“Serena...” Celeste whispered, stepping out of the elevator as if walking onto a battlefield. “I didn’t... I didn’t know it was like this. I swear I didn’t know.”
Serena remained standing near her workstation, her hands resting calmly on the edge of the marble table. She didn’t offer her sister a seat.
“You didn’t know what, Celeste?” Serena asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “That Nolan was a fraud? Or that he was in love with an idealized version of you while using me to pay his dry cleaning bills?”
Celeste burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. “He left me, Serena! The day his offices were raided, he packed his bags, cleaned out our joint savings account, and flew to Miami with some twenty-two-year-old model from his gym! I’m broke. My apartment lease is up next week, and my credit cards are all declined. Please... you have to help me. We’re sisters.”
Serena stared at her younger sister for a long, silent moment.
For six years, Celeste had played the victim while stealing the emotional oxygen out of every room they entered. For six years, Serena had excused it because she was the older sister, because Celeste was fragile.
“We are sisters, Celeste,” Serena said softly, walking slowly toward her. “Which means you knew every single day that he was looking at you instead of me. You watched him gaslight me. You watched him belittle my work, my clothes, my life. And you let him do it because it stroked your ego.”
Celeste sobbed harder, shrinking back against the elevator doors. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
“Sorry isn’t a currency, Celeste,” Serena said, her voice devoid of anger, carrying only the weight of absolute finality.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a plain white envelope containing five thousand dollars in cash—enough for a security deposit on a modest apartment in the suburbs and a fresh start—and dropped it onto the small marble table by the door.
“Here is your rent money,” Serena said. “Take it. Pay your first month somewhere far away from Boston. Never call me again. Never come to this building again. That is the only piece of sisterhood I have left to give you.”
May you like
Celeste stared at the envelope, trembling, realizing with terrifying clarity that the sister she had spent a lifetime walking over had just become an immovable mountain.
She picked up the envelope, stepped back into the elevator, and the doors closed, taking the last remnant of Serena’s past away for good.
