Chapter 4

There’s a special kind of awkward that comes from trying to emotionally detach from people who barely notice you exist.

That’s where I’m at now.

Sitting in the Carrington sunroom—because apparently, rich people need a separate room just for sun—sipping a tea I didn’t ask for and nodding politely at a conversation I’m not part of.

Julian’s draped across a chaise lounge scrolling through sports news. Evelyn is flipping through fabric swatches for an upcoming gala like world peace depends on finding the right shade of “champagne blush.” And me?

I’m just here. Decorative. Like a houseplant that occasionally clears its throat.

I told myself I’d use this time to start distancing myself. Slowly. Strategically. Less dinners. Fewer family events. Stop performing the well-behaved “adopted daughter” role.

But it turns out, I don’t have to put in the effort.

They’re already doing it for me.

“Lyra,” Evelyn says, not looking up from her swatches. “Are you still attending the Ambrose benefit next Friday?”

That’s her code for: Will you be presentable enough to sit quietly and make us look good in photos?

“I’m not sure,” I say, carefully neutral.

She hums. Not annoyed. Not surprised. Just… indifferent. “If you’re not feeling up to it, don’t worry. Anastasia should be back by then.”

Right. Of course.

The golden girl. The real daughter. The one who actually fits here.

Julian doesn’t even look up. “Oh yeah, Anya texted. Said she booked her flight yesterday.”

Anya. Of course she has a cute nickname.

My fingers curl slightly around the porcelain cup. I loosen my grip before it cracks.

“That’s… soon,” I say, and immediately regret it.

Evelyn finally looks at me. Not cruelly. Not coldly. Just—curiously. Like I’m a mildly interesting news story she forgot she bookmarked.

“Yes,” she says. “She’s missed us.”

Us.

Cool. Love that.

I make a mental note to spend that Friday locked in my room rewatching nature documentaries and pretending I’m a sea otter with no responsibilities.

I excuse myself a few minutes later with a vague excuse about a headache, and no one really reacts. Evelyn waves absently. Julian makes a noise that could mean anything.

Upstairs, I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling like it holds answers.

I’d expected pushback. A little resistance. Guilt, maybe. Questions.

But there’s nothing.

No one’s stopping me. No one’s asking why I’m distant. No one’s chasing me down the hallway yelling, “You’re one of us!”

Because I’m not.

And they’ve always known that.

I was the placeholder. The borrowed name. The acceptable stand-in while the “real thing” was being polished overseas.

And now that she’s coming back, I’m obsolete.

Honestly? It should hurt more.

But mostly, I just feel... tired.

Tired of pretending to be grateful for crumbs. Tired of performing politeness. Tired of holding my breath in a house that never made room for me to exhale.

I sit up, grab my notebook, and scribble out a few messy thoughts:

New Plan:

-Skip the Ambrose benefit.

-Start preparing for exit. Not dramatic. Quiet. Clean.

-Create separate bank account. Move money without drawing attention.

-Cancel next month’s social calendar. Blame “burnout.” It’s not even a lie.

I don’t have much time. Once Anastasia returns, the spotlight will shift. I’ll be the shadow again. And while the book didn’t get into how Lyra left—just that she did—I’m determined to make my exit on my terms this time.

A soft ping interrupts my spiral.

I blink down at my phone.

A message.

From Ethan Quan.

My heart does that dumb, traitorous flutter thing before my brain can slap it into submission.

I open it.

Ethan: Thank you for reaching out. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you—but I’m glad I did. Would you like to meet for coffee sometime this week?

Oh.

Oh wow.

I reread the message twice, then once more, just to be sure I didn’t hallucinate it.

He responded.

He wants to meet.

Suddenly, everything else—the benefit, Anastasia, the Carringtons’ well-manicured disinterest—feels like background noise.

Because maybe, just maybe… I’m not so alone in this story after all.