Chapter 2

Cinnamon woke me up.

I came downstairs already knowing better than to get excited about it.

The counter was wiped clean. Four plates sat drying in the rack.

A sticky note was stuck to the fridge, Mom's handwriting.

Made you french toast — in the container, 40 sec should do it. Had to run out early for setup. Happy 18th, sweetie!! 💛💛

Two exclamation points. Like that made up for it.

I opened the container. The french toast had gone stiff at the edges. Next to it, a glass of orange juice had separated into layers, pulp settled at the bottom. Nobody had touched it since morning.

Four plates. A whole breakfast, and nobody thought to wake me up for it.

I checked the calendar on the fridge out of habit. My birthday was circled in Mom's handwriting. Under it, in smaller letters: Gala setup, 8 AM.

I heard Dad's voice first, out in the garage, on the phone.

"Did the framer confirm the size? ... Good. It needs to be mounted by five, not five-thirty."

Then Mom, somewhere near the front door, talking fast.

"I cried twice just watching the preview. The whole thing runs eight minutes and I cried twice. She's going to lose it tonight, I swear—"

She.

Which she.

A black SUV pulled up outside around noon. Two guys unloaded light stands, a reflector, a camera bag. I watched from my window, arms crossed.

They set up in the backyard. Dad lifted Lila onto the tire swing — the one he'd hung for me when I was eight — and Mom stood next to them, all three of them laughing at the camera like it came naturally.

"Beautiful," the photographer called out. "One more — Lila, lean into your mom a little?"

They moved inside after that. I could hear them in Lila's room, admiring the fairy lights, the reading nook, the welcome card taped to the door.

"This room is stunning," the photographer said. "Did you design it yourself?"

Mom's voice again, proud. "Every detail."

Mom does this for a living. People pay her to build rooms exactly like that.

Last year I sent her a moodboard — twelve pins, exactly what I wanted my room to look like. She said she'd take a look once things slowed down. That board is still sitting in my phone. She never brought it up again.

She can build someone a whole room from nothing. She builds them for strangers.

She never even opened my twelve pins.

Kieran caught me on the stairs a little after that, jacket already on.

"Sloane." His hand was on the doorknob. "Whatever happens tonight — I'm on your side."

I didn't say anything.

Sure you are.

I put on the black dress. Not a party color. A statement color.

I did my makeup slow and careful, so nobody could tell if my eyes had been red, ever, about any of this.

I wasn't going there to cry. I was going there for an answer.

I waited until it got dark.

The Uber driver kept glancing at me in the mirror.

"Big night? Whole street's blocked off up ahead. Heard it's some kind of family thing. Real fancy crowd."

"Something like that," I said, and looked out the window.

Valet cars lined the driveway. Through the front windows I could already see the flowers — white and gold arrangements taller than the waiters carrying trays past them — and past that, a stage with a screen built into the wall behind it.

The venue had a step-and-repeat sign near the entrance, gold script across the top.

Celebrating the Hartwells — Beacon Family of the Year

Below it, a photo. Dad, Mom, and Lila under the oak tree in our backyard, sunlight catching all three of them.

No Kieran.

No me.

Small print at the bottom: Thank you for showing us what family really means. — Dr. Nadia Voss.

I stood in front of it for a second.

I opened my phone. The folder was still there — screenshots, the whole channel, saved and ready.

I locked the screen and caught my reflection in the glass doors. Black dress. Steady hands.

Then I pushed the door open and walked in.