Out of My Sister's Shadow, I Lived for Myself

My sister Vivian dated men the way other people taste champagne — a bright sip, then set the glass down before anyone could ask her to finish it.

Never enough to satisfy anyone. Never long enough to be held responsible for the empty glass.

When those men discovered one another, they did not punish her.

They chose me.

Attention I had never received became flowers, invitations, and late-night calls. For a while, I let myself believe it.

Vivian only smiled. "They must have finally noticed how much kinder you are than me." She said it like a compliment. It wasn't.

Then the floating words appeared in front of my eyes.

[Nice. She actually thinks this is about her.]

[They're not courting her. She's a tool.]

[They'll make her fall. Then they'll drop her where her sister can watch.]

And from the other side of a half-open door, I heard a man say, with perfect calm, "If Vivian hadn't been so cruel to me, I wouldn't have had to use her sister."

That was the night I stopped mistaking attention for love.

That same night, I went to the club because Mason Prescott asked me to meet him — still hopeful, still stupid.

I stood in the shadow beside the service corridor, my fingers wrapped around the strap of my purse, while his voice carried through the half-open door.

"—she's nothing like Vivian," one of his friends said. "She's sweet. You smile at her twice and she thinks you've fallen in love."

A low ripple of laughter went around the room.

Mason's answer was colder. "That's the point. Vivian hates losing control. When Claire falls apart, Vivian will know she caused it."

Three months ago, Mason could barely remember my name.

Tonight I was the subject of his conversation, and it was not flattering.

The words slid across my vision, bright as subtitles in a film only I could see.

[He asked Vivian to take him back this afternoon. She refused to see him.]

[He's furious. If Claire goes with him tonight, he'll film her crying and send it to Vivian.]

[Run, girl.]

I did not know what they were. I did not know why they followed me.

But after what I'd just heard through that door, I no longer needed much proof to suspect they were right.

Yesterday I had baked him a cake.

Not from a mix — an hour of folding whipped cream into mango puree, because Vivian once said mango was his favorite. I carried the little white box to his townhouse myself.

The words said he had thrown it away without tasting it.

I turned toward the exit.

"Claire?"

Mason had spotted me. For one second, irritation sharpened his handsome face. Then the easy smile returned.

He stepped out of the room and crooked a finger at me as though I were a pet he expected to obey.

"Come here, sweetheart."

Usually, I would have gone.

This time I stayed where I was.

His smile tightened. He crossed the carpet in three long strides. "What's wrong?"

"I'm going home."

I turned, but his hand closed around my arm. The sudden pull knocked me against his chest.

His other hand pinched my cheek — playful enough for the audience behind him, possessive enough to make my skin crawl.

"You baked for me yesterday, and today you won't even say hello?" he said loudly. "That's cold, Claire."

A few of them chuckled under their breath. Heat crawled up my neck.

It was Vivian who had encouraged the cake.

When I told her that Mason and several other men had started pursuing me, I had been frightened she would think I had stolen something from her.

Instead, she had taken my hand in both of hers and said, "Don't worry about me. Plenty of men like me. I'm happy someone finally likes you. Bake for them, Claire. Make an effort. Maybe they'll like you even more."

Behind me, something between a laugh and a snicker moved through the men. The room was still right there.

I looked up at Mason. I wanted him to hear himself lie.

"What was inside the cake?"

He paused.

Only for a second, but I saw it.

"You want a formal review now?" He laughed and glanced at his friends. "What are you, opening a bakery?"

"It was mango."

"Then I loved the mango."

"There were two layers."

His fingers tightened on my arm.

The words crowded my sight.

[He didn't taste it. Straight into the trash.]

[If Vivian had baked it, he'd have kept it in a glass case.]

Another voice drifted toward us. "Am I interrupting something?"

Julian Calloway approached with his hands in the pockets of his charcoal suit. His eyes were bright, his smile effortless, and neither held any warmth.

"Well," he said. "If it isn't little Claire."

The words rushed across my sight.

[Julian likes Vivian's kind — the ones who play the same games he does.]

[He's said it before — a girl like Claire clings. Better not to touch her at all.]

[But Vivian got under his skin last week. That's the only reason he's standing here.]