Chapter 3 003
Rhea's POV
I stumbled through the front door of my apartment. My legs felt like they were made of lead and my brain resembled a static-filled television screen.
It was 12:47 AM.
With Harlan, the 9-5 grind was exactly that—nine to five. But under the new regime of Alejandro Alvarez, time had become a fluid, punishing concept.
He didn't leave until the last digit of the last spreadsheet was verified, which meant I didn't leave either.
I was the ghost in his machine, the one who had to endure his icy glares and sharp, condescending commands until the city lights were the only things left awake.
I leaned my back against the heavy oak of my front door, my eyes closed, just trying to savor the silence of my own sanctuary.
I was home. I was safe from those piercing grey eyes that seemed to track every breath I took.
"You're late, Rhea."
The voice punched through the silence. I shrieked, my heart leaping into my throat as my eyes flew open.
My parents were sitting on my velvet sofa, bathed in the dim amber glow of my floor lamp.
My father sat upright, his arms crossed, looking like a judge presiding over a courtroom. My mother sat beside him, twisting a silk scarf between her manicured fingers.
"What are you doing here?" I gasped, my hand clutching my chest. "How did you even get in?"
"We still have the emergency key, Rhea. Though from the look of this place, the real emergency is your schedule," my father said, his voice clipped.
"We've been calling you for three hours. Why haven't you been picking up?"
I kicked off my heels, and felt the cold floor against my aching arches. I dumped my bag on the arm of the sofa, not caring that my keys spilled out.
I didn't have the energy for a lecture. I didn't even have the energy to be polite.
"I was working, Dad," I said flatly, heading toward the kitchen. I needed water. Or wine. Or a nap that lasted a decade. "I have a new boss. He isn't exactly the 'go home early' type."
"Resorting to the secretary's life was one thing," my father called out from the living room, "but coming home at one in the morning? It's unseemly. People will talk."
I stopped at the kitchen island and turned around, the exhaustion finally sharpening into irritation.
"Dad, I am almost 28 years old. I am well past the age of needing a curfew. This is my apartment, which I pay for with my salary from the job that keeps me late. I'll come and go as I wish."
"Don't be disrespectful," my mother pleaded, though her eyes weren't on me. They were scanning the room, likely looking for dust or some other sign that I was failing at life.
"We're only here because we're worried. And because we have something important to discuss."
I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. From the practiced solemnity on their faces, the heavy silence, and the way they wouldn't meet my eyes, I already knew. The "Owen Talk."
Since my sister Brenda passed away three years ago, my parents had developed a singular, obsessive focus—they'd turned into these relentless matchmakers, pushing me toward Owen like he was the golden ticket to salvation.
They wanted me to be the replacement in his life.
Maybe if she'd had a kid, some little niece or nephew to tie us all together, I'd have considered it. Played the dutiful aunt, kept the family bonds intact. But no, that wasn't the case.
Owen came from old money, the kind that could pull our family out of the bankruptcy pit we'd sunk into after Dad's business tanked.
They wanted me to marry him so he could "help us rise back to our status," as Mom so delicately put it once. Like I was a pawn in their comeback story.
"If you're here to talk about Owen, save your breath. You can leave right now because you already know my stance."
"Rhea, listen to reason," my mother said, standing up and walking toward me. She reached for my hands, but I pulled them back.
"Owen's a good man. He loved Brenda, and he could love you too. It would honor her memory. Besides, he is grieving, just like us. He misses Brenda terribly, and he wants to stay connected to this family."
I laughed, but it came out bitter, echoing in the small space.
"Honor her memory? By what, stepping into her shoes like some replacement wife? No, thanks, Mom. I'm not interested in being anyone's consolation prize."
"It's practical!" my father shouted, standing up.
"We are drowning, Rhea. The house, the company... Owen has offered to take care of everything if you would just be sensible. He loved Brenda, and he sees so much of her in you. Is it so much to ask that you help your family? With the debts... Owen could change everything. For all of us."
"I am not Brenda! I have never been Brenda!" The scream tore out of me before I could stop it.
The room went deathly quiet, and the air became thick with all the things we never said out loud.
My mother's face hardened. The mask of the grieving, concerned parent slipped, revealing the cold resentment underneath.
"Well, you are right," she whispered, "You aren't Brenda and you can never be her. Your sister was selfless. She always put this family first. She was the light of our lives, Rhea. She was... she was just the better child. Everyone knew it. Even you."
There it was. The jagged, ugly truth.
A pang of pure, unadulterated pain sliced through my chest. I'd known it my whole life, of course. I'd seen it in the way they looked at her school plays versus mine.
I'd felt it in the way they excused her at every whim because she was "fragile" and "sensitive," while I was expected to be the iron pillar that held everything up. They had always loved her more.
All those years they pretended it was equal love, masking it with excuses: "Brenda needs special attention because she was bullied."
Yeah, right. Crazy bullshit. The kids teased her about her red hair once or twice in grade school, but let's be real—she was stunning, and she knew it.
She craved the spotlight, the constant compliments, the way Mom would fuss over her outfits and Dad would beam at her straight-A report cards.
Me? I was the afterthought. The brunette who blended in, who worked twice as hard for half the praise.
Their favoritism made it so damn hard to love my sister sometimes. Resentment simmered, but I did love her.
We shared secrets, late-night giggles, and that unbreakable sibling bond. She was my confidante, my rival, my everything until cancer stole her away.
And now? They were weaponizing that love to guilt-trip me.
"Brenda would be happy to know you were making the love of her life happy," my father added, trying a different, more manipulative tactic. "He's lost, Rhea. You could be his anchor."
"His anchor? Or your meal ticket?" I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You're narcissists. Both of you. You don't care about my happiness, and you don't even care about Owen's. You just want your country club memberships back."
My father moved toward me, his face twisted in a scowl, but my mother stepped between us.
She looked at me with a desperate pleading that felt more like a threat than an apology.
"Think about it, Rhea. Please. He was her whole world. And you know... she was ours."
That did it. The room spun a little, anger and grief blurring together.
"Get out. Both of you."
Mom's eyes widened, realization dawning as she replayed her words.
"Rhea, wait—I didn't mean it like that. We love you both equally. Brenda just... she needed us more sometimes. Please, don't—"
"Save it," I snapped, striding to the door and yanking it open wide.
The cool hallway air rushed in, a clear contrast to the stifling tension inside.
"I have a mountain of paperwork to finish, and I have to be back at that office in less than six hours to be insulted by a man who hates me. I don't have the space in my life for your brand of poison tonight."
"Rhea, just listen to us for one minute—" my mother started, her voice softening.
I didn't look at her. I turned my head away, staring at a smudge on the wallpaper of the hallway.
I couldn't look at the woman who had just confirmed my deepest, darkest insecurity.
"Out," I repeated, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
Mom hesitated. She looked at me with those watery blue eyes, the same ones that used to melt my resolve when I was ten.
Dad muttered something under his breath about "ungrateful kids," but they gathered their coats and shuffled past me.
Just as they hit the doorway, Mom reached for me. I saw it coming and instinctively pulled away, putting a foot of cold space between us before she could make contact.
I slammed the door behind them, and locked it.
For a moment, I stood there, my forehead pressed against the wood, my breathing ragged.
Then the dam broke. Tears spilled hot and fast, sobs wracking my body as I slid down to the floor.
I pulled my knees to my chest and cried into my skirt, the silence of the apartment feeling less like a sanctuary and more like a cage.
How much harder could this get? How much more could one person take before they just... broke?
Betrayed by the man I once loved, trapped under his thumb at work, and now this... my own family treating me like second-best.
Even in death, Brenda's shadow loomed larger than ever, and I was drowning in it.
I cried until my throat burned, until the exhaustion won out. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I dragged myself to the couch to take a short nap, paperwork be damned.