All Chapters of Only the Second Best: Chapter 1 - Chapter 7

It was a quiet weekend afternoon, the sun lazily dipping behind a veil of thin clouds. I was sitting on a slightly wobbly wooden bench, facing a small lake behind the villa where my dad’s best friend was hosting his birthday celebration.All the guests were up in the front hall, speaking in business jargon and flashing polite, plastic smiles. And, as usual, I was hiding in a place that didn’t need explaining.A small A3-sized canvas stood on a folding easel. In my hand was a fine brush, and my fingers were already smeared with oil paint. I was painting the reflection of the water and the soft glow of the afternoon light shimmering across the lake’s surface.The colors were a mix of dusky blue, honeyed orange, and a touch of gray. Shades I found by blending whatever I felt like on the palette.There was no sound except for the gentle strokes of my brush and the rustle of leaves swaying in the breeze. This was my world.A small corner where I wasn’t “Tiara’s twin,” or “Señor De Carrillo

Five Years LaterThe city looks different from the eighteenth floor. Through the large living room window of my apartment, the skyscrapers jut upward like giant shards of metal randomly stabbed into the earth. The sky is a bluish orange. The last light of the afternoon hits the glass, casting a faint reflection of my face.I’m sitting on a gray couch, legs folded beneath me, laptop open on my lap. On the screen, a 3D model of a commercial building in the city center is still slowly rotating, but my eyes are blank. My mind isn’t here. Hasn’t been for a while.I bought this apartment two years ago. With my first paycheck as a research assistant and some freelance interior design projects I took on while studying architecture. I originally rented the place for practical reasons—close to the office, free from family interference, quieter.But deep down, I know the real reason: so I wouldn’t have to see them anymore.Reagan and Tiara. Three years dating. Five breakups. Seven reconciliation

Late afternoons in Napa Valley always feel like an expensive painting. Too serene to be real.The air is crisp, the sky a clear blue with wisps of clouds drifting lazily, and the grapevines hang heavy with ripened fruit. The De Russo family was hosting a pre-wedding lunch that felt more like a high-society social event: a grand white tent set up in the middle of the vineyard, filled with guests in linen outfits, overpriced sunglasses, and smiles too wide for the cool weather.I wore a sleeveless ivory dress. Simple but elegant. My hair was left loose, clipped neatly on one side. Next to me, Geraldo in a pale blue linen shirt and slightly cuffed khakis looked like someone who walked out of a Ralph Lauren summer catalog.“Let me guess,” he said, reaching for a mimosa from a passing tray, “everyone here is trying to figure out whether you’re a telenovela star undercover at someone’s wedding.”I laughed. “They’re probably guessing that about you. You’re way too charismatic to be just some

I stood frozen beneath the shade of a jacaranda tree, its fallen blossoms a soft purple halo around the heels of my muddy shoes. My heart pounded in my chest, but it sounded like an echo in an empty room. Distant and unfamiliar.I had almost been sold.Not literally, of course. But the way Reagan spoke earlier... the way his grandfather looked at me like I was a last-minute solution on an auction block... I knew exactly where I stood.To them, I was nothing but a backup plan. A shadow of Tiara.And that hurt more than I ever imagined it would.Someone called my name from far off, but I didn’t answer. I just walked faster, heading to the narrow side corridor of the church that led into the garden. The sounds of frantic guests faded behind me, replaced by birdsong and the soft brush of wind against my cold, clammy skin.I didn’t know where I was going. Or what I was supposed to do.Then—soft footsteps behind me.“Sweetheart…”That voice. The one that could bring down all my walls with a