—
The mural stretches across the hallway, all soft pastels and golden light. It’s full of pictures – painted versions of Zane and Becca, laughing, dancing, holding hands, kissing. It’s romantic in a way that makes your chest ache a little.
Would be better if the groom didn’t have more than a few screws loose.
“Wow,” I whisper. “The cruise really was made just for them.”
Céline glances over, smiling a little like she’s not surprised. “Yeah. I was actually there when Becca and Margot planned the whole thing. They got the mural commissioned months ago.”
“Wait–months?” My eyebrows lift. “They were planning this cruise that far back?”
She nods, pulling her hair over one shoulder. “Becca’s a planner. And Margot’s got crazy connections.”
I nod slowly, still staring at the mural, but something about her words doesn’t sit right with me. My fingers reach out, brushing against the painted wall – only to jerk back instantly.
Cold!
I glance sideways at her. “Are you and Becca close?”
She hesitates just a little, then shrugs. “Kind of. We met through Lacey, but Becca and I ended up getting along. Funny thing is, Lacey and Becca hate each other.”
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I mull over her words. I would have thought she didn’t like Becca as well. She acted like it, but I guess everything isn’t black and
white.
“Seriously? I wouldn’t have guessed.” Sarcasm drips from my words and I can’t help but grin.
Céline sighs. “Yeah. I keep hoping one day they’ll both grow up and hug it out or something. But knowing them, the chances are slim to none.”
“I get that,” I say, a soft smile forming, I’m still examining the pictures closely. They really are perfect for eachother. They look so good together, too. “My sister and I never really got along either. My brother used to be the peacekeeper. He just wanted us to get along, but half the time, we were fighting over him.”
I chuckle quietly, but the sound fades as an unfamiliar wave of sadness hits me. That horrible pain tightens in my chest at the thought of Luther, who’s gone.
And Diana, who I lost.
The ache presses against my chest, and this time, unlike all the times before, I don’t push it away. I let it settle.
I deserve to feel the pain, the same way Luther deserves to be mourned.
And everything that went wrong with Diana deserves to be regretted.
Beside me, Céline suddenly goes still. I glance at her, confused for a second–then it hits me.
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Of course.
She must’ve seen those articles too.
The ones about me. About my family.
Her voice is quiet at first, almost like she’s talking to herself. “So it’s true? I never thought I’d meet an actual Vanderbilt. That must be… nice.”
Something about the way she says it makes my stomach twist. I shift uncomfortably and give her arm a gentle tug, guiding us away from the mural.
“Unfortunately, I’m not really a Vanderbilt anymore,” I say with a weak laugh, trying to make it a joke.
But then she says, “Still Vanderbilt enough to get an inheritance, right?”
I freeze.
The air around us shifts.
I turn slowly, confused, and maybe a little nervous. “What?”
She’s staring at me with this look I’ve never seen on her before – cold, distant. It sends a chill down my spine.
“What are you even talking about?” I ask, forcing a laugh. “Cut it out. You’re being weird. It’s just a name.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile. Just keeps going like I never said anything. “So you can help me out. With money.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I just blink at her,
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stunned.
“It’s not a huge amount,” she says casually, like she’s asking me to borrow a sweater. “If you ask your parents, I’m sure they won‘ t even care. What’s a hundred thousand dollars to them?“.
My heart stutters when she smiles.
But it’s not her usual smile. It’s sharp. Almost cruel.
It reminds me too much of Zane.
“I mean, they’re loaded, right? One of the richest families in the world! I bet they have fifty thousand dollars just sitting in some old account.”
I let go of her hand. Slowly. Watching her face the whole time.
“Like I said… I’m not a Vanderbilt,” I say quietly, though my voice is starting to shake. “And even if I was, I wouldn’t help you. Not like this.”
She blinks, confused.
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on with you,” I go on, my anger finally slipping through, “but if this is who you are — if this is what you do – then yeah. Let’s stay away from each other.”
I turn to walk away.
But her hand clamps onto my arm, tight.
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