Chapter 5: The First Ask

The first time Elena asks for money after my marriage, I've been Mrs. Damien Wolfe for exactly three weeks.

She shows up at the penthouse unannounced, letting herself in with the key I didn't know she had. I'm in the kitchen trying to figure out the espresso machine—Damien mentioned preferring his coffee a certain way, and I'm still foolish enough to think small gestures might matter—when I hear her voice.

"Claire! Oh my God, this place is insane."

I turn to find Elena wandering through the living room, running her fingers over furniture that costs more than a car. She's wearing the leather jacket I wanted last year, the one I couldn't afford even on sale. On her, it looks effortless. On me, it would have looked like I was trying too hard.

"Elena." I set down the espresso cup. "How did you get in?"

"Mom gave me a key. She said you wouldn't mind." She flops onto the white sofa—the one Damien specifically said cost twelve thousand dollars and should be treated accordingly. "This is amazing. You're so lucky."

Lucky. That word again, like I won the lottery instead of signing a contract that turned me into a live-in stranger.

"Did you need something?" I try to keep my voice neutral.

"Actually, yes." She sits up, tucking her legs under her—shoes still on, leaving marks on the pristine fabric. "I need a teeny favor."

I should say no immediately. Should have learned by now that Elena's "teeny favors" are never small. But she's my sister, and I'm still naive enough to believe that family means something.

"What kind of favor?"

"Money." She says it casually, like she's asking to borrow a hair tie. "Just twenty thousand. Maybe twenty-five to be safe."

I nearly drop the espresso cup. "Twenty-five thousand dollars?"

"For the gallery!" She bounces excitedly, oblivious to my shock. "The space I found is perfect—exposed brick, huge windows, right in the arts district. But I need the first and last month's rent plus security deposit, and Dad's money from your wedding only covered the renovations."

Dad's money from your wedding. Like my marriage was a ATM withdrawal instead of a life sentence.

"Elena, that's—that's a lot of money."

"But you have it now." She gestures around the penthouse. "Damien is loaded. Twenty-five thousand is probably like pocket change to him."

"It's not my money," I say quietly. "It's Damien's."

"You're married. What's his is yours, right?" She pulls out her phone, scrolling through photos. "Look, I already found the perfect furniture. These vintage velvet chairs—only three thousand each, and I need six. And this chandelier—"

"Elena, I can't just ask Damien for twenty-five thousand dollars three weeks into our marriage."

Her face falls, and I see the manipulation coming before she even opens her mouth. "I thought you'd want to help me. This is my dream, Claire. The gallery is everything to me."

And what about my dreams? I want to ask. The university I never got to attend? The life I never got to live?

But I don't say this. Because I'm still the sister who sacrifices, who bends, who makes myself smaller so Elena can shine.

"Let me talk to Damien," I hear myself say.

Her face lights up. "Really? Oh my God, thank you! You're the best!" She jumps up, hugging me briefly before pulling back to look at her phone. "I need to put a deposit down by Friday, so if you could get the money by Thursday—"

"Elena—"

"You're so lucky you get to help me with this," she continues, not hearing my protest. "The gallery is going to be amazing, and when I'm successful, I'll tell everyone my sister helped make it happen. You'll be like, associated with my success. That's pretty cool, right?"

I stare at her. She genuinely believes this. That being allowed to fund her dreams is a privilege I should be grateful for. That her success reflects well on me, making my sacrifice worthwhile.

"I have to go," Elena says, already heading for the door. "Meeting with the designer about the logo. Text me when you have the money!" She blows me a kiss and disappears, leaving behind a faint trace of expensive perfume—the bottle I bought her for her birthday—and shoe marks on the twelve-thousand-dollar sofa.

I stand in the empty penthouse and try to figure out how to ask my husband—who barely speaks to me—for twenty-five thousand dollars for a sister who just called my life "lucky."

---

That night, I wait for Damien to come home.

Nine PM passes. Then ten. At eleven, I hear his key in the lock.

He looks exhausted, tie loosened, jacket slung over his shoulder. When he sees me sitting in the living room, surprise flickers across his face.

"You're awake," he says, like finding me in our shared home is unexpected.

"I needed to talk to you about something." My voice sounds small in the vast space.

He checks his watch—an automatic gesture, like he's calculating how much time this will cost him. "Can it wait until morning? I have calls with Tokyo at six."

"It's important."

He sighs, sets down his briefcase. Doesn't sit, but stands there waiting, giving me the same attention he might give a subordinate with a minor issue. "What is it?"

"My sister needs money. For her art gallery." The words tumble out. "Twenty-five thousand dollars. I know it's a lot, but—"

"No."

I blink. "What?"

"No." He says it simply, final. "Your family received a substantial settlement as part of our marriage agreement. What they do with it is not my concern."

"But Elena needs—"

"Elena needs to learn financial management." He picks up his briefcase again. "The answer is no, Claire. Don't ask again."

He walks toward his bedroom, conversation over.

"Please." The word escapes before I can stop it. "She's my sister. This gallery is her dream."

Damien pauses, turns back. His expression is unreadable. "And what's your dream, Claire?"

The question catches me off guard. "I—what?"

"Your dream. What do you want?" He waits, genuinely seems curious. "Because from where I'm standing, you're asking me to fund your sister's ambitions while having none of your own."

"That's not—" I start, then stop. Because he's right. When was the last time I had a dream that wasn't about making someone else happy?

"Your family will bleed you dry if you let them," Damien says quietly. "I've seen it before. That's why the contract specified a one-time payment. No additional financial entanglement." He meets my eyes. "You want to give your sister money? Get a job. Earn it yourself. But I won't subsidize your family's inability to live within their means."

He disappears into his room, leaving me standing there with Elena's request unsent and a truth I don't want to face: my husband, who doesn't love me, sees my family more clearly than I do.

---

I tell Elena no.

The phone call is brutal.

"What do you mean, he said no? Did you even try?" Her voice is sharp, accusatory. "I need this money, Claire."

"I asked. He said the settlement he gave Father was supposed to cover everything."

"That money is gone! Dad used it for the café renovations, and Mom's medical bills—"

"Elena, I can't—"

"You won't," she corrects. "You're married to a millionaire, and you won't help your own sister. Do you know how selfish that is?"

The accusation stings because part of me believes it. Have I tried hard enough? Should I push Damien more? Empty my own meager savings account?

"I don't have twenty-five thousand dollars," I say quietly.

"But you could get it. You just don't want to." Her voice turns cold. "I guess marriage to Damien changed you. Made you think you're better than us now."

"That's not—"

"Whatever. I'll figure it out myself. Like I always do." She hangs up.

I sit there holding the phone, guilt churning in my stomach. She's right—I could try harder. Could plead with Damien, could offer something in exchange, could take out a loan in my name.

The thought makes me feel sick.

But not as sick as disappointing Elena makes me feel.