Page 13 of Playboy’s Purgatory

I’m not entirely sure who they’re ready to defend. Me. Or her.

“Let me guess,” Lara’s voice rings out strong and sure when I don’t answer her. She taps her chin like she’s really thinking about it. “She told you that she was never loved. That all the attention was heaped on me while we were growing up and she barely got scraps, let alone fair treatment?”

She poses it like a question, but it’s not one.

And she’s not done.

“She whispered in your ear that every time she got into trouble, every time something bad happened in her life, I was really to blame. I framed her. I never let her shine. I resented her. I hated even having the air in my family split between the two of us. I never shared. Never gave. Never allowed.”

She narrows her eyes and the air stills in my lungs. While I know she’s angry, the bite in her words and the strain in her shoulders telling me just how close she is to losing her complete shit, she’s also calm. Too calm.

I swallow hard and nod. Slowly. Uncertainly. Even though I know what Lola told me. I remember every one of her truths because they felt like a confession which she was reluctant to share while being unable to stop her pain from bleeding out.

But I also watched. The way people gravitate toward Lara. The way she absorbed it all and thrived.

Wasn’t it proof?

Could I have gotten it all wrong?

Something in her tone tells me this is my only chance to listen to what she has to say, the disappointment in it sounds sincere, “Playboy. You’ve been lied to. I don’t know why she picked you out of everyone, but you’re her mark. If you don’t realize it soon, she’ll rot your life from the inside out.”

CHAPTER 3

LARA

This is going to hurt.

Not just him, but me as well. And Vanessa.

I never saw a reason to put all my personal business into the spotlight for public consumption. It’s not like I was hiding anything, but I figured the past is the past and moving here would allow me to just slip into the community as me—a single mom with a business plan and the will, and savings, to make it happen.

If, at some point, Vanessa and Lola forged some type of relationship, the past might become relevant. I should have predicted she’d twist some guy up for her own devices. She’s so fucking good at it.

I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I swear a few people have stopped breathing, but I don’t care. The only person I check in with is Vanessa, who is looking at me with understanding on her face.

We don’t back down from bullies. We stand up for ourselves.

I’ve been trying to make her stronger than I was at her age. It’s a lesson which starts with me.

“Lola has always been good at telling a story. Believable enough. Plausible, maybe, if you don’t look too closely, or ask too many questions. It’s the only way she’s ever been able to bend the paper trail. It’s just a narrative,” my voice is flat and factual.

When I force myself to glance around, there’s confusion written on more than one face. And I know why.

Even though Lola has clearly told Playboy the truth about one thing—that we’re sisters—it’s slipped past a lot of people. We sure as hell don’t act like sisters. I might have moved here with a sliver of hope for Vanessa having Lola in her life, but I saw no reason to broadcast the information.

I close my eyes for a brief moment and brace myself. Some people are going to look at me differently after this. I’ve been ignoring any shadow of pity I’ve seen on people’s faces; I’ll see it more often after today.

But there’s no going back and I’m fed the fuck up with dealing with Playboy and his bullshit. I’m not going to allow Lola to manipulate people and spread her poison.

“You might not be aware of one important fact,” I sweep my gaze over everyone surrounding us. They’re all paying remarkably close attention to what is happening, even if they pretend like they’re not. “Lola is my sister,” my voice comes out steady, surprisingly enough.

It’s not easy pushing down the nausea because I’m the center of so many people’s attention.

I hear a few gasps and almost laugh at the absurdity of this moment. I’ve never felt like the lead in a telenovela more than I do right now.

“She’s younger than me by eleven months. We’re just enough apart and fall on the calendar just right that I was a grade ahead of her,” I explain even though I don’t need to.

Honestly, I resent the fuck out of needing to say anything at all.