Chapter 6: The Price of Love

Three days later, I liquidate my savings account.

It's not twenty-five thousand—only eight thousand, scraped together from six years of café work and birthday money from my grandmother before she died. I tell myself it's a start. That Elena can find the rest somewhere else.

I meet her at a coffee shop to hand over the check. She barely looks at it.

"Eight thousand?" She doesn't say thank you. "Claire, I need twenty-five."

"It's all I have."

"Can't you get more from Damien?"

"No."

She stares at me like I've betrayed her. "So you're just going to let my dream die? You know how important this is to me."

"Elena, I gave you everything I have—"

"Eight thousand isn't everything." She pushes the check back across the table. "If you can't give me what I actually need, then don't bother. This just insults me."

I stare at the check sitting between us. Eight thousand dollars. Every penny I've saved since I was sixteen. Six years of spare change and skipped lunches and saying no to things I wanted. Not enough.

Never enough.

"Fine." Elena stands, grabs her purse. "I'll ask Marcus Chen. Richard's business partner—remember him from Damien's company party? He's been texting me, says he'd love to invest in art." She smiles coldly. "At least someone recognizes talent when they see it."

She leaves me sitting there with the check and a sick feeling in my stomach.

I deposit it back into my account that afternoon. By evening, I hate myself for feeling relieved.

---

Six months later, Elena's gallery opens.

She found investors. Marcus Chen. Richard Shaw. Two other businessmen I don't know. The opening night is lavish—catered food, champagne, local celebrities. Elena floats through the crowd in a designer dress, radiant, successful, everything she always knew she'd be.

I attend with Damien, who insisted we make an appearance. "Networking," he said. Not for Elena's sake. For his.

Elena sees us arrive and waves, but doesn't come over. I watch her laugh with her investors, touch their arms, charm them effortlessly. She's good at this. Getting what she wants. Making people feel privileged to give it to her.

"Your sister is quite entrepreneurial," Damien observes, sipping champagne. "She managed to secure impressive backing."

There's something in his tone. I look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Marcus Chen invested eighty thousand. Richard Shaw matched it. The others contributed smaller amounts." He watches Elena across the room. "Men rarely invest that heavily in art galleries without expecting some kind of return."

The implication makes my skin crawl. "She wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't she?" He meets my eyes. "I'm not judging. I'm simply stating facts. Your sister got her gallery. How she got it is her business."

I feel sick. Search the room for Elena, find her leaning close to Marcus, laughing at something he said. His hand is on her lower back. Too familiar. Too intimate.

Later, when I try to talk to her, she's surrounded by admirers. I wait on the periphery until she finally acknowledges me.

"Claire! You came!" She air-kisses near my cheek. "What do you think? Isn't it perfect?"

"It's beautiful," I admit. The space is stunning—everything she envisioned. "I'm proud of you."

"Thanks to my investors." She gestures to Marcus, who raises his glass across the room. "They believed in me when my own sister wouldn't."

The words are quiet, said with a smile, but they cut deep. Several people are listening, and their eyes shift to me—judging.

"Elena, I gave you everything I had—"

"Eight thousand." She says it loud enough for nearby guests to hear. "My sister, married to Damien Wolfe, offered me eight thousand dollars. Can you believe that?" She laughs, and others laugh with her. "Good thing I have real supporters."

I stand there, humiliated, as she turns away to pose for photos. Damien appears at my elbow.

"We're leaving," he says quietly.

I follow him out, cheeks burning, eyes stinging. In the car, he doesn't speak. Neither do I.

When we get home, I go straight to the guest room. Lie on the bed fully clothed and stare at the ceiling.

My phone buzzes. A text from Elena:

Thanks for coming tonight! Sorry if I was weird—had too much champagne lol. You understand. Love you! 💕

No apology. No acknowledgment of how she humiliated me. Just a casual excuse and an emoji.

I should be angry. Should tell her off, set boundaries, demand respect.

Instead, I text back: Congratulations on the gallery. You deserve it.

Because that's what I do. Absorb the hurt. Pretend it's fine. Make myself smaller so she can be bigger.

Another text comes in:

You're the best! Hey, the designer recommended this furniture for my apartment. Could you maybe help with the down payment? Just 5k. I'll pay you back once the gallery starts making money!

I stare at the message until the screen goes dark.

---

Over the next year, Elena asks for money twelve more times.

Help with furniture. Help with her car payment. Help with a vacation she "needs" for stress. Help with designer clothes for gallery events. Help with jewelry. Help with rent when the gallery doesn't turn profit as quickly as expected.

Sometimes I say yes. Sometimes I say no. Either way, she makes me feel guilty.

Every time I say yes, Damien notices. Never comments directly, but I see his disapproval. The subtle way he checks our joint account statements. The tightening of his jaw when Elena's name comes up.

Every time I say no, Elena punishes me. Stops calling. Posts photos on social media of her with "real family"—our parents, her friends, anyone but me. Then, when she needs something again, she reappears with apologies and promises and just one more favor.

I'm caught between a husband who despises my family and a family who thinks I've betrayed them by marrying well.

The worst part? I'm starting to understand that they're both right.

My family is using me. And I'm letting them.

---

The night that changes everything happens two years into my marriage.

I come home from a charity event—one of the obligatory appearances where I play the role of Damien's elegant, silent wife—to find Elena in my living room. She's been crying, mascara streaked down her face, still wearing last night's clothes.

"Elena?" I drop my purse. "What's wrong? How did you get in?"

"I still have the key." She's slumped on the sofa, looking destroyed. "Claire, I fucked up. I really fucked up."

My stomach drops. "What happened?"

"Marcus." She covers her face. "He said he'd forgive my loan if I... and I thought it was just one time, but he wants more, and Richard found out, and now they're both threatening to pull their investments unless I—"

She breaks down completely. Sobs that shake her whole body.

I sit beside her, numb with horror. "Elena, what are you saying?"

"I slept with them. Both of them. For the gallery." She looks at me, eyes wild. "You don't understand the pressure. Everyone expecting me to succeed. The gallery was failing. They offered to help, but there were conditions, and I thought I could handle it, but Claire, I don't know what to do—"

"You need to report them," I say immediately. "This is coercion. Sexual harassment. Maybe assault—"

"I can't!" She grabs my arms. "If this gets out, I'll lose everything. The gallery, my reputation, everything I've worked for. They'll say I'm lying, that I seduced them. Who will believe me over two wealthy businessmen?"

She's right. I know she's right. I've seen how these things go. The woman always loses.

"What do you need?" I ask quietly.

"Money." She wipes her face. "Enough to pay back the investments and cut ties with them. Then I can find new investors, ethical ones. Start over clean."

"How much?"

"One hundred and sixty thousand." She sees my face. "I know it's insane. But it's the only way out."

I can't breathe. That much money... even if I could convince Damien, he'd never agree. And asking would reveal everything—Elena's situation, the continued financial requests, my own complicity in enabling her.

"I don't have that kind of money," I whisper.

"But Damien does." She squeezes my hands. "Please, Claire. You're my sister. You're the only one I can ask. If you don't help me, I don't know what I'll do."

The threat is unspoken but clear. She's desperate enough for anything.

"Let me think about it," I say finally.

She hugs me fiercely. "Thank you. Thank you. I knew you wouldn't let me down."

After she leaves, I sit in the dark penthouse and wonder when helping my sister started to feel like drowning.

---

I don't ask Damien for the money.

Instead, I do something stupid. I take out a loan in my name, using my marriage to Damien as collateral that I have no right to claim. The interest rate is predatory. The terms are brutal. But Elena needs it, and I can't watch her destroy herself.

I give her the money. She cries, promises to pay me back, swears she'll fix everything.

Six months later, the gallery closes. Elena moves to Portland with a new boyfriend. The money is gone. Every penny.

And I'm left with a debt I can't pay and a marriage that feels like a prison.

When Damien finds out—and he does, eventually—he doesn't yell. Doesn't rage. Just looks at me with something worse than anger.

Disappointment.

"I told you they would bleed you dry," he says quietly. "Why didn't you listen?"

I don't have an answer.

That night, I realize: I've spent my entire life trying to buy love with sacrifice. From my parents. From Elena. Even from Damien, in my own way.

And I have nothing to show for it but debt and exhaustion and the growing certainty that I'm disappearing into the shadow of everyone else's dreams.

But I still don't stop. Still don't learn.

Because that's what I do.

I'm the sister who gives. The daughter who sacrifices. The wife who endures.

And in three more years, it will kill me.