Chapter 2

Streetlights streaked past the car window, their light flickering across Clara's face.

Our camping trip came to an abrupt end. Furious that I "didn't know what was good for me," Dad ordered the driver to take us straight back to Manhattan that night.

Clara was leaning against my mother, flipping through a thick catalog of couture wedding gowns.

She turned the catalog toward Mom and pointed to a pearl-white designer gown.

"Mom, this one's so pretty. I heard Liam loves simple, elegant dresses like this."

My mother stroked Clara's hair, gazing at her with open adoration.

"It does suit you. With your fair skin, you'll look like an angel in it."

I sat in the front passenger seat and stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror, my face blank.

That was the gown Liam and I had chosen together a month ago. He'd even called the designer in Milan himself and asked for my initials to be embroidered in silver thread on the inside of the hem.

Now they were talking about putting Clara in my wedding dress.

Mom caught my eye in the rearview mirror. She cleared her throat and leaned forward to pat my seat.

"Emma, don't take it personally. Your dad had a point.

"Liam is ruthless. He lives for his work, and you're far too quiet for someone like him. You two would have nothing to talk about. You'd only end up getting hurt.

"Clara's different. She's warm and outgoing. Someone like her might actually get through to Liam. Business marriages work best when the two people complement each other."

My father kept scrolling through the files on his tablet without looking up. "I've already found someone else for you. He's the son of the city's energy director. He's done time in prison, but he's quiet and mild-mannered. Someone like that would suit you. You've never been one to make waves. For a woman, there's nothing better than a quiet, stable life."

"For a woman, a steady life is a blessing."

I looked down at my bare ring finger.

"Sure. Whatever," I said softly.

Clara giggled, unable to hide how thrilled she was.

"I knew you loved me the most, Emma! Tomorrow I'm going to try on that gown. Will you come with me? You have the best taste."

I closed my eyes.

"I have to go back to school tomorrow and turn in an important report. I can't."

Clara's smile vanished. She sniffled as if I'd hurt her feelings.

My mother's expression darkened instantly.

"What's with that attitude? Your sister was kind enough to invite you. It's just a dress. Would it kill you to be gracious about it?

"We raised you and sent you to the best schools. And now a man you haven't even married matters more to you than your own family?"

I didn't answer. I just leaned my head against the cold window.

I'd been hearing the same thing for 22 years.

My whole life, whenever Clara wanted something of mine, they found 1,000 reasons why I should hand it over.

When I was seven, she broke my favorite music box. My mother said, "She's your little sister. She doesn't know any better. Cut her some slack."

When I was 16, she cut up the dress I'd picked out for a dance. My father said, "We'll buy another dress. Yelling at your sister over something so small is petty."

The child who never complains is always asked to give up more. I'd learned to keep quiet, and my parents had taken that silence for permission.

When we got back to the townhouse on the Upper East Side, I went straight upstairs.

The moment I pushed my door open, I froze.

Several workers were tearing out my custom-built bookshelves. My easel and paints had been dumped in the hallway, and several of my drawings were already covered in dust.

Mom followed me upstairs, speaking as casually as if nothing were wrong. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your sister's getting engaged next month, so she'll need more nice things to wear. Her closet doesn't have enough space.

"Your room is bigger and gets plenty of light, so we're knocking down the wall between the two rooms and turning yours into a walk-in closet for her."

"You hardly have anything anyway. Just use the guest room by the attic for now. You'll be getting married and moving out soon enough."

I stared at the shoe prints across my drawings. A cold numbness settled over me.

The guest room was at the very end of the hall. It never got any sun, and the air smelled damp and musty.

"Okay." I crouched down and picked up my drawings, one by one.

Clara came out of the room next door in a silk robe, holding a glass of warm milk.

"Sorry, Emma. I just have so many clothes." Her smile turned smug. "If you really mind giving up your room, I can give you a few of my old trench coats. You can wear one to your blind date with that single dad next week."

I stood up and shoved the drawings into a cardboard box.

"No, thanks. I'll move."

Everything I owned fit into just two suitcases.

I really didn't own much. In this house, every trace of me had been erased bit by bit, long ago.

After I moved into the guest room, cold air seeped through the gaps around the window, making me shiver.

My phone buzzed. It was Liam calling.

He heard it in my voice immediately. "You don't sound too happy."

"I'm packing." I looked around the empty guest room.

"Do you have a lot to pack?"

"Not really." I looked down. "It all fit into two suitcases."

The line went quiet for two seconds.

"Whatever you need, we'll get it when we get there.

"I've already had Evan prepare the estate by Lake Como. It's filled with white lisianthus, your favorite flowers.

"That's settled," he said in an encouraging tone. "Emma, don't look back."

My fingertips warmed around the phone. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the mint he'd slipped me the night before, and popped it into my mouth.

Cool sweetness spread across my tongue. The lump in my throat slowly eased.

"I won't."

Two more days.