In the Name of My Sister

I loved her. But that love was born out of ruin. My greatest joy in life was bullying her. I wanted to see her—so high and mighty, so untouchable—pinned beneath useless me, making a shattered expression. Later, I got bored. I wanted to start a new life, to get away from this deformed family. But before I could even board the flight out of the city, my vision went black. I lost consciousness. When I woke up again, I was tied to a bed. Sloane stood by the edge, watching me. "You always agreed to whatever I did to you. Since that's the case, can't you just be a good girl and stay by my side?" "Riley, where else do you think you can run to?" 1. When I was ten, my mom brought a girl home. She said that from then on, she would be my sister. That was also the day I completely became a "defective product." It was a weekend. I remember it clearly because I had just been sent to the principal's office, and they called my parents. My mom rarely showed up in person, so when she walked into the office, I was actually happy. Because I hadn't seen her in a long time. But I couldn't smile for long. On the drive back from school, my mom’s face was completely blank. She didn't say a single word to me the entire way. I would have preferred a beating when we got home, or at least a scolding. That would mean she still cared. But she said nothing. She just sat in the car in silence, as if I didn't even exist. When we walked into the house, I saw a girl sitting in the living room. She was much taller than me, thin, with her hair tied in a ponytail. She wore a washed-out, faded uniform. She sat on the very edge of our expensive leather sofa, her back perfectly straight, hands resting politely on her knees. Hearing the door, she looked up, revealing a clean, delicate face. I froze in place. I hadn't figured out why this girl was in my house. My mom explained the situation through her actions. She walked over and stood right next to her. "This is Sloane. She'll be your sister from now on." I didn't say a word. Because I didn't know what to say. A sister? Where the hell did I get a sister? I stared at the girl, and she looked back at me. Then she smiled slightly and called out softly, "Hey, little sister." At that exact moment, with those words, I understood everything. I looked at my mom and her standing side by side. I didn't say a word. I turned around, went back to my room, and slammed the door as loud as I could. Growing up, the phrase my mom said to me the most was: "Riley, you need to be a person of value." I always kept those words in my heart, trying my hardest to be the "valuable person" my mom talked about. I worked myself to the bone to get straight A's, just to earn a fleeting smile or a brief word of praise. But everything started to change after I got into a car accident in the third grade. That day, the chauffeur was driving as usual, and I was in the backseat looking at my spelling words. But then came a blinding white light, a deafening crash, and the world spun out of control. I completely lost consciousness. When I woke up, I didn't know how long I had been asleep. I just heard my mom's cold, rational voice outside the hospital room: "Since she's not in critical condition, let's discharge her tomorrow." I had barely survived the crash thanks to my seatbelt. But after that, I lost interest in almost everything. Whether it was life or school. My mom quickly noticed something was wrong. She took me to see top therapists, but the feedback was always the same... "She's perfectly healthy." "There's no underlying condition." I will always remember coming out of the doctor's office for the last time. She stood on the sidewalk in Manhattan, sighed, and checked her watch. Then she told me: "Take a cab home yourself." After that, my mom never took me to see another doctor. But I knew. Even though she didn't say it, that sigh made it all clear. She was saying: "Riley, you're useless now." Sloane was an underprivileged student my mom had been sponsoring. Her father passed away, her mother remarried and abandoned her, and she lived with her grandmother in poor conditions. My mom had sponsored her for three years. She found her obedient, sensible, mature, and academically brilliant. So, she decided to officially adopt her. My mom never discussed this with me. She didn't even give me a heads-up. It was as if adding or losing a daughter in this house had absolutely nothing to do with me. I was just someone who lived in this mansion. I had no voting rights, no right to speak, not even the right to be informed. In her eyes, I was a failure. A useless daughter. So whether I knew about this or not wouldn't change the outcome. Similarly, my feelings, my everything—none of it mattered in this house. I figured that out very early on. That night, I lay face down on my bed, burying my face in the pillow. I didn't cry. At ten years old, I already rarely cried. I just thought: every mother in the world loves her daughter. Why doesn't my mom like me? 2. I thought about it for a long time and came to a conclusion. It must be because I wasn't good enough, so she needed another daughter. And Sloane was that "good enough" daughter. She was four years older than me. She was fourteen when she came to my house, just starting middle school. Her grades were shockingly good. My mom transferred her to the best private prep school in the city, and she ranked first in her grade on the very first exam. When my mom saw her report card, a look of absolute joy appeared on her face—a look I had never seen before. From the day I was born, she had never looked at me with those eyes. My mom transferred me out of my school and put me in the elementary school attached to Sloane's prep school. I didn't know what her reasoning was. Maybe she thought it was easier for the driver to pick us up together, or maybe she wanted Sloane to "rub off on me." But whatever the reason, it made no difference to me. I was still completely apathetic. I went from being at the top of my old class to the dead bottom of the new one. I adapted to this new dynamic very quickly. I was still constantly getting calls sent home, but now, the person showing up was Sloane. Because my mom never had time. My mom was never available. She was a senior partner at a top-tier investment bank, leaving early and coming back late. Sometimes she’d be away on business trips for days. We had a housekeeper who cooked and cleaned, taking care of me and Sloane. From childhood, my mom's style of parenting me was simple: Give me money, give me a school, give me a place to live. She didn't care about the rest. I was just a project in her life—a failed project she had abandoned to focus on a new, much more promising one. That was Sloane. From then on, I started to hate Sloane. No, more accurately, I started to bully her. I bullied her in many ways. At first, I hid her things. Her backpack, her textbooks, her iPad. I hid them all. I wanted to see her get anxious. I wanted to see her panic, running around looking for things. I wanted to see her cry. But she never did. Every time, she would calmly find me, crouch down to my eye level, and say in that gentle voice: "Riley, do you have my math book? Could you give it back?" I glared at her and threw the book right at her face. She caught it, smiled slightly, and said, "Thank you." Thank you? I threw a book at her face, and she thanked me? What a psycho. Sloane changed her first name and took our last name. I couldn't even remember what her original name was. Maybe it was Chloe? Or Claire? It didn't matter to me. What mattered was that she was now Sloane Sterling. She shared my last name. My mom's last name. Her name was clearly printed on the family trust documents as the "Eldest Daughter." She looked exactly like my real sister. Sometimes, I’d flip through the photo albums at home and look at pictures of our "family of three." My mom, Sloane, and me. Sloane stood next to my mom, who had her arm around her shoulder. Both of them were smiling. I stood on the other side, a scowl on my face, looking like an outsider forced into the frame. I stared at that photo for a long time, then smashed the album onto the floor. She wasn't my sister. She was an intruder, a "perfect product" bought to replace me. I hated her. I hated her gentleness, her patience, her perpetually calm demeanor. I hated her stellar grades, her maturity, her ability to satisfy my mom. I hated how she prepared my coffee and left it on the counter every morning. I hated how she brought me an umbrella when it rained. I hated how she stayed awake all night by my bed when I had a fever. Because all of it made me feel like she pitied me. She was pitying a defective product. She was using her goodness to highlight my badness. Using her perfection to prove my flaws. Later, my bullying escalated. I poured her expensive makeup down the toilet. I tore her meticulously prepared college application essays into shreds and threw them in the trash. I pulled the potted plant she had been growing up by its roots and threw it on the balcony to dry out in the sun. When she came back and saw the dirt and dead leaves all over the floor, she crouched down and picked it up piece by piece. Then she stood up and looked at me. I thought, this time, she has to snap. But she didn't. She just sighed softly and said, "I took care of that plant for two years. What a shame." Then she went back to her room to study. She never hit me, never yelled at me, never even raised her voice. She just looked at me with those quiet eyes, as if she could understand anything I did, as if no matter how I acted out, I was just a child throwing a tantrum. That look drove me insane. But I always felt she was faking it. 3. She had to know I was my mom's biological daughter. She didn't want to lose my mom as her benefactor, so she tolerated me. All her gentleness, all her patience, all her "goodness." It was all just a survival strategy for someone living under another's roof. She wasn't genuinely good to me; she was flattering me. Because my last name was Sterling by blood, and she was just adopted. That thought gave me a twisted sense of balance. Yes, exactly. The reason she didn't dare get mad at me was that she was terrified of losing everything she had. The elite school, the luxurious life, the wealthy adoptive mother, the bright future. Once I figured that out, any lingering guilt vanished. I bullied her with absolute peace of mind. Because she brought it upon herself. She chose to stay and play the role of the perfect sister. So she shouldn't blame me for being merciless. This dynamic lasted for years. From when I was ten to eighteen. From my elementary school days to my high school graduation. From when she was an adopted girl living under our roof to when she got into an Ivy League school. And then, she entered my mom's corporation, stepping up to take control of the conglomerate. Sloane became more and more formidable. She called the shots at the company, decisive and ruthless, managing thousands of employees. Even the seasoned executives in their forties and fifties respectfully called her "Ms. Sterling." My mom grew increasingly satisfied with her, increasingly dependent on her. She bragged to everyone, "My daughter Sloane did this, my daughter Sloane did that," her voice dripping with pride. And me? After barely graduating high school, I went to some third-rate college. In my mom's eyes, I was completely useless mud that couldn't be molded. My mom could easily have sent me abroad or pulled strings, but she didn't even want to waste those "resources" on me. Which proved she had truly given up on me. She didn't even bother mentioning me anymore. I was air. I was full of resentment. But that was fine. I had my own ways to vent. "She's here for Ms. Sterling again..." When I walked into the corporate lobby with my hands in my pockets, looking like the world owed me a million bucks, the two receptionists immediately started whispering. Sure, this was how I looked every time I came to see Sloane. Ever since Sloane moved into my house, she had become my mom's "real daughter." After all these years, besides me, no one even knew Sloane was adopted. As for my mom... she probably wished she could rip my page out of the family trust just to bring her "precious daughter" closer. The entire conglomerate knew the CEO had a useless younger sister who idled her days away, had no skills, and whose only hobby was harassing her older sister at work. They assumed I came to ask for money. They were wrong. With full clearance, I took the private elevator straight to the top floor. This entire floor belonged to Sloane. It was dead quiet. She was the one in power now, spending her afternoons handling affairs from her office. When I pushed the door open, Sloane was sitting behind her desk, reviewing files. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and a sharply tailored black blazer. Her hair was pinned up, revealing a pale, slender neck. Hearing the door, she looked up at me. I walked straight over, bypassed the massive desk, and stood right in front of her. She leaned back in her chair, looking up at me. The eyes behind the lenses were as calm as water, as if she already knew what was about to happen. I reached out, snatched the glasses off her face, and tossed them on the desk. Then I leaned down, gripped her chin, and kissed her. She didn't dodge. Or rather, she never dodged. My kiss was vicious, almost vengeful. I bit her lip, my tongue roughly forcing its way past her teeth. She was pushed back by the force of it, her leather chair letting out a soft creak as I took whatever I wanted. I hated this look of hers the most. As if nothing I did could cause even a ripple in her heart. I deepened the kiss, pressing my other hand against the top of her chair, trapping her completely between me and the leather. Her breathing finally hitched for a second, but that was it. When I pulled away, her lips were swollen from my biting, her lipstick smeared. She merely raised a hand, wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, and cast her eyes down at the red smudge on her skin. Then she picked up her glasses and slowly put them back on. "Are you done? I need to work." Her tone was completely flat. Exactly like when we were kids and I hid her notebook, and she’d calmly ask me "Where did you put it?" I stared at her, the anger in my chest unable to find an outlet. Or rather, I'd never been able to find an outlet for it. "No." After saying that, I lowered my head and sealed her lips again. This time, I was even rougher, practically biting her. One hand gripped the back of her head, my fingers tangling in her pinned-up hair, tearing the hairpins out one by one. Her hair cascaded down, slipping cool and silky through my fingers. She still didn't push me away. Even when I drew blood from her lip, she only frowned slightly. The taste of copper spread between our mingled breaths. When I tasted it, a twisted sense of gratification surged in my chest. I let her go, stood straight, and looked down at her. Her head was tilted back, her lip broken and bleeding. Her hair was a mess, her glasses sat crookedly on her nose, and I had pulled her blazer wide open at the collar. She looked thoroughly wrecked. Yet beneath that calm gaze, there was only a hint of resignation. She adjusted her messy hair and her collar. "Don't make such a mess." She didn't even care about her bleeding lip. She only cared if her hair was ruined and her collar was buttoned properly. Always so composed. I pinched her jaw, forcing her to look at me. "Sister." My voice softened, ending with a sickly-sweet lilt. I saw Sloane's eyelashes flutter. Her expression paused for a split second before she pulled up that gentle smile. "What is it?" I only called her "sister" at moments like this. I knew she was drowning in her role as the "gentle older sister," so I was more than happy to indulge her. Only in these specific moments, of course. I brushed my thumb over her smeared lipstick. "Getting kissed like this by your own 'little sister'..." "Aren't you a bit of a freak?" 4. She didn't answer. She just turned her head to break my grip. Then she reached up to fix her collar, tucked her stray hair behind her ear, lowered her head, and went back to her documents. "There's coffee and pastries on the table. Eat it yourself. Be a good girl." She said it just like that. As if nothing had happened. I let out a cold scoff, threw myself onto the leather sofa, and started eating. She was like this every single time. After so long, I was used to it. I had no idea what went on in Sloane's head, and I didn't care to know. Ever since I turned eighteen, she and I had been trapped in this extraordinary, "deformed" relationship. It all started on my eighteenth birthday. They called it a coming-of-age party, but it was really just an excuse. My mom booked a ballroom at a luxury hotel and invited a bunch of her Wall Street friends and business partners. Everyone wore perfectly tailored smiles, offering their congratulations. But I knew they weren't congratulating me. They were congratulating my mom. Congratulating Sloane on taking on more of the company. Congratulating the Sterling family on having a worthy successor. As for me, I was just a prop for the banquet. I kept a scowl on my face the whole time, holding a glass of champagne in the corner, watching my mom link arms with Sloane as they toasted table after table. "This is my eldest, Sloane. She's helping me out at the firm now." When my mom said that, her smile was brighter than any she had ever given me. Sloane stood beside her in a champagne-colored evening gown, her hair swept up in an elegant updo, wearing simple pearl earrings. She looked dignified and poised. Halfway through the banquet, I ditched the party and went to hang out with my own crowd. They weren't really friends—just a bunch of rich kids like me with too much money and zero ambition, gathering to drink and waste away. When I arrived, they were already a round deep. Seeing me, they cheered and made me take three penalty shots. I didn't say a word and downed three glasses of whiskey back-to-back. The hard liquor burned its way down my throat, making my stomach churn, but the burn felt good. I was annoyed. Not just because my mom treated me like nothing, but because of Sloane. "Riley, did you and Skylar break up?" My friend Liam leaned in. I glanced at him and sighed. "She's going to study abroad. We ended it on good terms." Liam looked stunned. "Huh? Just like that? You could go with her." "She didn't ask me to," I shrugged. "Besides, my mom can't even be bothered to look at me right now, let alone send me abroad. She'd just think I was wasting her money." Liam went quiet. He probably couldn't understand my mom's parenting style. "How... how long were you guys even dating?" He quickly changed the subject to cut the awkwardness. "Three days." "......." Conversation over. I ended up being carried to the car by my friends. When I got out, I pushed the front door open, didn't even take off my shoes, and stumbled into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa. The main lights were off; only a dim yellow nightlight glowed in the entryway. I lay there with my eyes closed. My head was spinning, and my stomach kept rolling. Then I heard footsteps. I didn't need to open my eyes to know who it was. For years, it was only ever her and me in this massive house. The footsteps got closer and stopped by the couch. I felt someone crouch down in front of me. "Riley." "Why did you drink so much?" I didn't open my eyes. I didn't speak. I felt her stand up and leave, returning a moment later. Then, something cold pressed against my forehead. A towel. An ice-cold towel. She supported the back of my head with one hand and used the other to carefully wipe my forehead, cheeks, and jaw. "How much did you have? Does your stomach hurt? Want me to make you some hangover soup?" Her voice was laced with the perfect amount of concern. Exactly what a perfect older sister would sound like. But was she? She wasn't. She was just too good at acting. She had played the role for nearly ten years; she probably believed it herself by now. Who did she think she was? Did she think putting on this act would make me grateful? Make me call her "sister"? "Don't touch me." I smacked the towel out of her hand. She didn't speak. She didn't move. I opened my eyes and saw her crouching by the couch, one hand still hovering in the air, maintaining the exact posture from when she was holding the towel. "Riley, you're drunk. Let me help you to your room, okay?" She reached out, trying to help me up. At that exact second, the tight string in my brain snapped. "Cut the act!" I grabbed her wrist and yanked it hard. Caught off guard, she lost her balance and fell forward onto me. Sloane crashed onto my body, her hands bracing against the back of the sofa on either side of my head just in time to stop herself from crushing me. Her face hovered right above mine. Inches away. I saw her freeze. For a split second, that mask of hers cracked with shock. I stared at her. Stared at that perpetually calm, gentle face. At those eternally unbothered eyes. Whenever I was a mess, Sloane was always there, like she could accurately smell my impending emotional breakdowns and deliberately lean into the blast zone. Every word she said, every action she took, challenged my limits. I had tried so many ways to make her stay away from me, but she was completely unfazed. And now, looking at her face. 5. A crazy, impulsive thought exploded in my mind. I tipped my head up and kissed her. It was rough, totally devoid of skill, driven by a vengeful sort of malice. I waited. Waited for her to shove me away, to yell at me, to hit me. Waited for her to finally "snap." But she didn't move. Her lips pressed against mine—warm, soft, and trembling slightly. But she didn't push me away. I opened my eyes. She was still in the same position, hovering over me, her eyes half-closed, eyelashes fluttering. Her breathing had grown erratic. Warm breath washed over my face, carrying a barely detectable tremor. She didn't push me away. She even closed her eyes. The living room was dim, but I could still see the change in her face. A thin flush crept across her cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears, looking incredibly vivid under the glow of the nightlight. I was completely stunned. I knew Sloane indulged me. She never said no to me. But I never expected she would allow me to do this. And then, I smiled. In that moment, I felt an unprecedented rush of pleasure. The thrill of dominating her. The forever untouchable, perfectly composed Sloane. She was finally no longer that flawless "sister." I had finally dragged her down into the mud. From that day on, this twisted game between us began. I would seek her out after drinking, crash into her office when I was in a foul mood, and push her bedroom door open in the dead of night. She never refused. Just like my "pranks" when we were kids. Whatever I did, she silently accepted. Oddly enough, since we started doing this, my hatred for seeing her lessened. Maybe it was just habit after all these years. But more likely, it was because I had finally found a sense of equilibrium within my own bitter resentment. And the key to maintaining that balance... Was this sick, intimate contact between us. I leaned back on her office sofa, ate half a plate of pastries, and drank two cups of black tea. The couch was soft, the sunlight was warm, and after eating my fill, I started feeling sleepy. I was too lazy to leave, so I just slouched down, closed my eyes, and planned to take a nap. It wasn't like I had a job, meetings, or networking to do. My entire existence consisted of vast amounts of time I could just waste. If I ran out of money, I just asked Sloane. She was never stingy; she gave me whatever I asked for. From Sloane's desk came the rustle of papers, occasionally punctuated by her talking on the phone. She spoke quickly, her logic razor-sharp, sounding like a completely different person from the one who talked to me. Listening to it, I drifted off. Half asleep, I heard a knock at the door. Sloane said, "Come in." I didn't bother opening my eyes, just rolled over and buried my face in a throw pillow. The door opened. Someone walked in. "Sloane." A clear, masculine voice rang out, carrying just the right amount of familiarity. Sloane paused. "Parker. Can I help you with something?" "Don't be a stranger, just call me Parker," the man laughed. "I came specifically to see you today. Didn't your mom mention it?" I squinted, peering through the gap in my arms. A young man stood in front of Sloane's desk. He looked to be in his early thirties, wearing a sharply tailored dark grey suit, handsome and clean-cut. He looked exactly like a successful corporate elite. He was holding a bouquet of flowers wrapped in dark green paper. It looked expensive. Sloane glanced at the flowers but didn't reach for them. "Parker, if there's something you need, just say it." "Why the rush? Your mom said you were free this afternoon, so I thought I'd wait for you to get off work and grab dinner. I know a great omakase place you'd love." I froze. Who the hell was this? My drowsiness vanished instantly. I sat straight up on the sofa. The movement was loud. The man heard it, turned around, and clearly froze when he saw me. He evidently hadn't expected someone else to be in Sloane's office, let alone someone slouched on the couch with their shoes on, looking like they just woke up from a bender. His gaze lingered on me for a second before he smiled politely, turning back to Sloane with a questioning look. Sloane looked at me. "This is my sister, Riley," she said. "Sister?" Parker obviously didn't know Sloane had a sister. His expression slipped for a second, but he quickly recovered and nodded at me. "Nice to meet you, Riley. I'm Parker." I ignored him. I leaned back on the couch, crossed my arms, and shifted my gaze from his face to Sloane's, then back again. Sloane had no intention of elaborating. She lowered her eyes and went back to the file in front of her. "Parker, I'm busy tonight. Let's take a raincheck." "What could be so urgent? Your mom said you didn't have any other plans," Parker said with a smile, a hint of persistence in his voice. "It's just dinner. It won't take up too much of your time." As he spoke, his eyes briefly flicked toward me. He was probably wondering why the "third wheel" wasn't leaving. 6. I stared at him, then suddenly laughed. "Hey, sis," I spoke up, my voice not loud, but clear in the quiet office. "Who's this guy?" Parker's brow furrowed slightly. My tone wasn't exactly friendly. Sloane looked up at me. "Riley," Parker spoke first. "Sloane and I have known each other for a bit. Your mother introduced us." My mother introduced them. My mom was setting Sloane up with men? I turned my head and glared at Sloane. "Sloane," Parker tried again. "Are you really not free tonight? It's just dinner. I already made the reservation." I didn't wait for Sloane to answer. "She's not free tonight." Parker looked at me, a flash of genuine displeasure finally crossing his eyes. Sloane also looked at me. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't say anything. I tilted my head, studying Parker. "She has plans with me tonight." "Some other time, then." He took a step back, walking to the door, then glanced back at Sloane. "I'll get going. I'll leave the flowers here. If you like them, I'll bring more next time." The door clicked shut. The office fell silent. I stared at that bouquet of Lisianthus. The white petals were pristine and beautiful. Sloane kept reading her files, completely unbothered. Like nothing had happened. I grabbed the bouquet, walked straight over to the trash can, and shoved it in. The flowers hit the bin with a dull thud. A few petals broke off and scattered on the floor. "Have the cleaning staff clear that out later." Sloane looked up, glancing at the fallen petals, her tone perfectly flat. From start to finish, she remained entirely unfazed. But I wasn't going to let him off that easily. "He's decent looking. Rich family, I assume? Or Mom wouldn't have given him the time of day." "Riley, Mom just wanted me to network with him. It doesn't mean anything." Sloane's tone was so soft. Whenever she spoke to me, there was always that underlying tone of "coaxing." Like I was just a petulant child throwing a tantrum. I hated that attitude. "Doesn't mean anything? Bringing you flowers, taking you to dinner?" For some reason, an indescribable emotion surged in my chest. I couldn't tell what it was, but I frowned, the words spilling out of my mouth before I could stop them. "Sloane, we both know what Mom is scheming. When did you meet him? How many times have you seen him? Have you slept at his place?" Sloane put down her pen. Her eyes, magnified slightly by the gold-rimmed glasses, looked at me directly. "Riley, I've only met him once at a gala. We haven't met privately, and I definitely haven't slept at his place." She sighed, a helpless but gentle smile curving her lips. "If I tell you that, will you stop being mad?" Hearing her say that, the knot of anger in my chest loosened a bit. But her almost overindulgent, doting tone made me inexplicably irritated again. "Don't get it twisted, Sloane. Nothing you say matters to me. You're just a toy." Sloane smiled, saying nothing. After Parker showed up, everything changed. No, to be exact, I changed. I couldn't say why. Sloane was supposed to be nothing to me. Just a "toy" I could bully and vent on. If she had suitors, if guys brought her flowers, if guys took her out—what did it matter to me? But I couldn't control myself. That night, I tossed and turned in bed, my mind filled with the image of Parker standing at her desk. And those damn white flowers. White petals, so pristine. Sloane seemed to like white. I rolled over, pulled the blanket over my head, and squeezed my eyes shut. But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was Sloane looking up at him. Did she smile at him? I couldn't remember. But I assumed she did. In my eyes, her smile was worthless. But who the fuck was Parker? What gave him the right? The next afternoon, I showed up at the lobby of Sterling Global again. The two receptionists exchanged a look. "Good afternoon, Ms. Riley." I ignored them and walked straight to the elevators. As the doors closed, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored walls. My brow was deeply furrowed, dark circles under my eyes from staying up all night. My whole face practically screamed "don't mess with me." No wonder the receptionists always looked terrified. Even I thought I looked like a psychopath about to snap. What was I doing? I wasn't here to catch a cheating spouse. When I pushed open Sloane's office door, she was on the phone. Hearing the door, she looked up, her lips curving into a small smile. She told the person on the line to hold, covered the receiver, and whispered, "There's snacks on the table. Sit for a second." That tone again. Coaxing a toddler. I sat on the couch, crossed my arms, and stared at her while she talked. She was wearing a white silk blouse today, the collar slightly open, revealing her collarbone. Her hair wasn't pinned up; it fell loosely over her shoulders, the ends curled and soft. I stared at her for a long time until she hung up the phone and met my gaze. "What's wrong?" she asked.

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