Chapter 105
Elara
I'd held onto those words like a lifeline. Apparently, they were just something he said. Sloane was the real exception. I was just... there.
I scrolled through her feed, each image a perfectly curated slice of the life I'd never have. Sloane at the Chelsea Gallery opening, wearing an Alexander McQueen gown that probably cost more than a semester's tuition, champagne flute in hand, standing in front of Broken Wings—my painting, with her name on the placard. Caption: "Honored to share my work with the world." 18.3K likes.
Sloane in the beach house, golden sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, wearing a La Perla silk robe, looking like every man's fantasy of effortless elegance. Caption: "Sunday mornings." Someone in the comments asked "Is Julian there?" She'd replied with a heart emoji.
Sloane and Julian on what looked like their college campus, autumn leaves blazing red and gold behind them, their backs to the camera, fingers intertwined. Caption: "Throwback to when we were young and stupid. Still young, still in love." 22.1K likes.
My hand shook as I scrolled. This was what Julian wanted. This was what he'd always wanted. Not the broken girl in the Bronx with paint under her fingernails and secondhand clothes. Not the foster daughter who'd mistaken proximity for love.
I backed out of Instagram and opened my contacts, finding Julian's name with the ease of three years' practice. My finger hovered over his contact card, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Delete contact.
The option glowed on the screen, simple and final. I stared at it for a long moment, my mind racing through every reason not to do this. What if I needed to reach him in an emergency? What if he needed to reach me? What if deleting him was a mistake I'd regret?
But I thought about today—him dragging me away from my work, from the first money I'd earned myself, from Raven and the people who'd actually supported me. I thought about him dropping me on a random street corner the moment Sloane called, like I was trash he could discard whenever something better came along. I thought about every time he'd made me feel small, every time he'd chosen her over me, every time he'd reminded me that I was just the help's daughter, just the charity case, just the girl who should be grateful for whatever scraps of attention he threw my way.
I tapped "Delete Contact."
"Are you sure?" the phone asked.
"Yes."
---
Julian
I stood in the doorway of Sloane's bedroom at Blackwood Estate, watching her laugh at something Victoria was saying, both of them seated on the velvet sofa with a tea service spread before them. Sloane's face was flushed pink with amusement, her hand gesturing animatedly as she described some fashion blogger's latest disaster. She looked perfectly healthy—glowing, even, in her beige cashmere loungewear.
Nothing like someone who'd been too sick to stand an hour ago.
I'd left Elara on a street corner in Brooklyn, hadn't even waited to make sure she got home safely, because Sloane needed me.
And now she was having tea.
"Julian!" Victoria spotted me first, her face brightening with artificial sweetness. "You're back! We were just—"
"Sloane." I kept my voice level, though my jaw was tight enough to crack teeth. "You said you were sick."
Sloane's laughter cut off mid-breath. She turned toward me, and in the space of a heartbeat, her whole demeanor transformed. Her hand flew to her lower abdomen, her face draining of color, her posture collapsing inward. "Julian... you came back..." Her voice emerged weak and tremulous, nothing like the clear, bright tone she'd been using seconds before. "I was just... Victoria insisted I eat something. I thought maybe food would help, but—"
She swayed, and Victoria immediately grabbed her arm. "Sloane! Don't try to stand! You're not well!"
I watched the performance with cold detachment. I'd seen this play before—the sudden pallor, the strategic hand placement, the perfectly timed wobble. I'd just never paid attention to how calculated it all was.
"You look fine," I said flatly.
Victoria's eyes widened in theatrical shock. "Julian! She was doubled over in pain half an hour ago! She said she was nauseous and the baby was kicking too hard and she couldn't stop throwing up! I made her eat something because she needs to keep her strength up!"
My gaze never left Sloane's face. "If you were that sick, you should be in bed. Not sitting here drinking tea and gossiping."
"I was just trying to—" Sloane's voice cracked. Her eyes filled with tears, real or manufactured, I couldn't tell anymore. "I thought if I moved around a little, if I ate something light—"
"Lucy." I called the housekeeper without turning around. "Please escort Miss Kennedy to her room. She needs rest."
Lucy appeared from the hallway, her expression carefully neutral. "Of course, Mr. Vane. Miss Kennedy, if you'll come with me?"
Sloane's tears spilled over. "Julian, I wasn't lying. I really didn't feel well. I just... I didn't want to worry you more than I already had, so when I started feeling a bit better, I thought—"
"Rest," I repeated, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll have the doctor come by tomorrow to check on you."
I turned to Victoria, who'd been watching the exchange with growing unease. "You. My office. Now."
Victoria opened her mouth to protest, saw my expression, and closed it again. She followed me down the hallway, her designer heels clicking against the marble floors, the sound echoing like gunshots in the silence.
My home office was all dark wood and leather, the kind of room designed to intimidate. I walked to the bar cart and poured myself two fingers of whiskey, downing it in one swallow before turning to face my sister.
"Your midterms," I said without preamble. "When do results come out?"
Victoria blinked, clearly thrown by the change in subject. "Um... Thursday, I think? But Julian, about Sloane—"
"Your GPA last semester was 2.1." I poured another glass, this time just holding it, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "You're a legacy at Harvard, but even legacy admits need to maintain certain standards. The board's been asking questions about our family's educational investment returns. Grandfather's getting pressure."
Victoria's face paled. "I've been studying—"
"Have you?" I finally looked at her, and something in my expression made her take a step back. "Because from what I've seen, you've been spending your time orchestrating social media campaigns, planning ambush dinners, and coaching Sloane on how to play sick to get my attention."