Chapter 91: Another Sister? How's that possible?

"You're trending.” Simone didn't look up from her phone. “Someone posted a side‑by‑side of your book cover and a photo of you at the signing. The comments are brutal.”

“How brutal?”

“The usual. 'She's promoting obesity.' 'Her editor should have made her lose weight before the photo shoot.' 'She's going to die of a heart attack by thirty.'”

I set down my charcoal. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need to know what they're saying before you walk into the arena tonight. Beck's game is sold out. There will be cameras.”

I didn't answer. I picked up my charcoal and went back to the galaxy on my easel. Simone stood up and walked to the door.

“Ivy.”

“Yeah.”

“You're not going to let them win, are you?”

“They're not trying to win. They're trying to make me smaller.” I smudged a star with my thumb. “It's not working.”

She left. The door clicked shut. I stared at the galaxy. It was beautiful. Infinite. Untouchable.

My phone buzzed. Beck: “Practice is over. I'm coming to get you.”

I typed back: “I'll meet you at the car.”

I wiped my hands on my jeans and walked out.

The arena was packed. Fans in jerseys, faces painted, signs waving. Beck's team was playing their crosstown rivals, and the energy was electric. I sat in the stands, my book clutched in my lap, my heart pounding.

A woman next to me leaned over. “You're Ivy, right? The one who wrote that book?”

“Yes.”

“My daughter loves your work. She's struggled with her weight her whole life. Your book made her feel seen.”

“That's the best compliment I could ask for.”

The woman squeezed my hand. “Ignore the trolls. They're not your audience.”

She turned back to the ice. The puck dropped. Beck scored twenty seconds in.

The crowd roared.

He looked up at me and tapped his chest.

I tapped mine back.

Between periods, I went to the bathroom. A group of girls stood by the sinks, phones out. One of them looked up when I walked in.

“Oh my god, it's her.”

“Who?”

“The fat girl who wrote that book.”

The room went quiet. I turned on the faucet and washed my hands.

“I'm standing right here,” I said. “You can talk to me directly.”

The girl flushed. “I didn't mean—”

“You meant exactly what you said. You just didn't expect me to hear it.” I dried my hands. “Enjoy the game.”

I walked out. My hands were shaking. But I didn't cry.

Beck found me after the game. They'd won 4‑2. He was still in his gear, sweat dripping down his face.

“You left early.”

“Bathroom break.”

“You're lying.”

He pulled me into a corner, away from the crowd. “What happened?”

“Someone called me the fat girl who wrote that book.”

His jaw tightened. “Who?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“It shouldn't.” I looked up at him. “I've been called worse by better people.”

“That doesn't make it okay.”

“No. But it makes it familiar.”

He cupped my face in his hands. His palms were rough from hockey tape, warm from the game. “You are not fat. You are not a label. You are the most beautiful, stubborn, brilliant person I've ever met.”

“You're biased.”

“I'm honest.”

He kissed me. Not gentle. His lips were urgent, possessive, like he was trying to erase every word anyone had ever said about me. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“I want the whole world to know.”

The next morning, Elena called. “Margaret wants to meet again.”

“No.”

“She says she has information about the woman at the rink. The blonde.”

“She's trying to manipulate me.”

“Probably. But the information might be real.”

I looked at Beck. He was making coffee, still terrible, still trying. “I'll think about it.”

I hung up.

We sat at the kitchen table, coffee between us, the morning light cutting through the blinds.

“Ivy.”

“Yeah.”

“I've been thinking about your grandmother. About the offer.”

“And?”

“And I think you should take it.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“Not the trust part. The protection part. If she can keep your mother's enemies away, maybe we can finally breathe.”

“You hated the idea yesterday.”

“Yesterday I was scared. Today I'm still scared.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “But I'm also tired. Aren't you?”

I was tired. Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of waiting for the next threat.

“I'll call Elena.”

Margaret answered on the first ring. “I was hoping you'd call.”

“My grandmother doesn't answer her own phone.”

“I'm not a typical grandmother.”

“No. You're not.”

There was a pause. Then: “The woman at the rink. Her name is Celeste. She was your mother's protégé. She blames me for your mother's arrest.”

“Did you set her up?”

“I made sure she was caught. There's a difference.”

“Not to Celeste.”

“No. Not to her.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because she's not going to stop with photographs. She's going to come for you. For Beck. For everyone you love.” Another pause. “I can protect you. But you have to let me.”

I looked at Beck. He nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “What do I need to do?”

That night, Beck had another game. The stands were full. Simone sat next to me. The woman from the bathroom was three rows behind.

“You're going to be okay,” Simone said.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because I've survived worse than words.”

The puck dropped. Beck scored.

He looked up at me.

And for one moment, the noise stopped. The whispers stopped. The weight stopped.

There was only him. And the ice. And the girl who refused to shrink.

After the game, my phone buzzed. Unknown number.

“Your grandmother is lying. Celeste isn't your mother's protégé. She's your mother's daughter. Your sister.”

I read the message twice. My hands went cold.

“Who is this?”

“Someone who's been watching longer than you've been alive.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I have proof. Meet me tomorrow. No Beck. No Elena. Come alone, or the truth stays buried.”

I turned off the phone. Beck was in the shower. The water was running.

I stared at the wall.

Another sister.

Another secret.

Another reason to run.

The water stopped. Beck walked out, towel around his waist, hair dripping.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm thinking.”

He sat next to me. “About?”

“About how many more secrets my family has left.”

He pulled me close. “We'll figure it out.”

“Together.”

“Together.”

He kissed my forehead.

I didn't tell him about the text.

Not yet.

Tomorrow, maybe.

But not tonight.