"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're being a coward. You made a mistake, yes. A stupid, desperate mistake. But you told Vanessa no. You chose Victor. And instead of fighting for that—instead of making him listen—you're just accepting his worst assumptions about you."
"What am I supposed to do? Show up at his penthouse? Beg him to take me back?"
"Yes!" both sisters say simultaneously.
"That's pathetic."
"That's love," Margot corrects. "Love is pathetic sometimes. It's messy and embarrassing and requires you to be vulnerable even when every instinct is screaming at you to protect yourself."
"I tried being vulnerable. I tried telling him the truth. And he called me a liar and fired me outside of a room full of people."
"Because he's scared," Amelia says. "Because he's been hurt before and he's protecting himself the only way he knows how."
"That's not my problem."
"Isn't it? You love him, Harper. I can see it on your face every time someone mentions his name."
"I don't?—"
"You do. And he loves you. And you're both being idiots about it."
I sink onto the bed, the bridesmaid dress crinkling beneath me. "Even if that's true—which it's not—what am I supposed to do? He made his choice. He chose his company over me."
"Did he?" Margot sits beside me. "Or did he panic and push you away before you could hurt him worse?"
"That's the same thing."
"It's really not."
I open my mouth to retort, but my mother chooses that exact moment to appear in the doorway holding a tray of coffee and cookies.
"Girls, I brought snacks. You look like you need snacks."
"Thanks, Maman," I mutter.
She sets down the tray and lingers, clearly hoping for an invitation to stay.
"Maman," Margot says gently. "We're having sister time."
"Sister time about Harper's billionaire husband?"
"How did you?—"
"I have ears. And you're not exactly being quiet." She looks at me. "Your father loved Victor when he came for Sunday dinner. He keeps asking when he's coming back."
My chest tightens. "I know, Maman. Things are just complicated right now with work and the board?—"
"Always excuses. Just like with your father's medical bills."
The room goes silent.
"What medical bills?" Margot asks slowly, reaching for a cookie.
I close my eyes. "Maman, please?—"
"What medical bills?" Margot repeats, her voice sharper.
