Chapter 148

[ 1,023 words ]

Katia’s POV

Delia had never been to my penthouse before.

I knew the moment I opened the door that she had not expected it to look the way it did. She stood in the doorway and looked at the space – the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Brooklyn skyline laid out behind them, the art on the walls, and the kind of quiet that only existed in a home that had been put together by someone who knew exactly what they wanted and had the means to get it.

She walked in without being fully invited.

“Nice place,” she said.

She said it the way people said things when they were recalibrating. Looking at the bookshelves, the kitchen, and the view. Taking inventory.

“Thank you,” I said. I left the door open. “What brings you here, Delia p>

She turned and smiled. The performance smile — the one she had been wearing since she was sixteen and had decided that a smile was armour. “Can’t a sister visit p>

I looked at her.

“You told me not to set foot in the Windsor mansion,” I said. “So it’s interesting that you’re in my house p>

She waved her hand. “That was different p>

“Was it p>

“The penthouse is lovely,” she said. She walked to the window and looked at the view. “Although compared to Julian’s estate, this is trash p>

“Compared to Julian’s estate,” I said. “Not your estate. Julian’s p>

She turned and looked at me with that fake surprised face.

“Do you have anything under your name, Delia?” I picked up my wine glass from the counter. “Not Martha’s name, not the Kensington name, not Julian’s name. Yours.” I sipped it. “Because the last time I checked you didn’t finish university. No degree. No diploma. No company. Not even a credit card that isn’t attached to someone else’s account.” I looked at her over the rim of the glass. “Just fancy clothes p>

Her jaw tightened. “You always have to do that p>

“Do what p>

“Make everything about achievement. Not everyone measures their worth by their bank account, Katia p>

“I didn’t mention bank accounts,” I said. “You brought up Julian’s mansion. I just pointed out it wasn’t yours p>

She was quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that meant she was deciding which card to play next.

“Stay away from Julian,” she said.

There it was.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“You heard me.” She stepped forward. “I see it. I’ve been seeing it for months. The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. The little conversations, the lunches, the business partnership that somehow requires you to be in the same room every five minutes.” Her voice was rising. “I am his wife, Katia. Whatever you think is happening between you two p>

“Nothing is happening,” I said.

“Bullshit p>

“Delia p>

“Don’t,” she pointed at me. “Don’t give me that calm face. I know that face. You’ve been giving me that face since we were children, and it means you think you’re smarter than me, and right now I am telling you to stay the fuck away from my husband p>

I sipped my wine.

“If he was yours,” I said, “what are you doing here p>

“What p>

“If Julian was yours, like really yours, you wouldn’t be standing in my apartment at seven PM telling me to stay away from him. You’d be home.” I set the glass down. “The fact that you’re here means you already know something is wrong. And you’re blaming me for it instead of asking yourself why p>

“You have been eye-fucking my husband since the day you walked into that boardroom p>

“I work with him,” I said.

“You work with a lot of people and you don’t end up in their Instagram posts,” she snapped. “France. Dubai. The desert. The dinner at the top of the Burj Khalifa.” She stepped closer. “I had him investigated, Katia. I have photographs. I have dates and locations and a very clear picture of a man who has been spending a significant amount of his time documenting someone who is supposedly just a business partner p>

I said nothing.

“Nothing to say?” she said. “No clever comeback? No wine-sipping calm p>

“What do you want me to say p>

“I want you to admit it.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. Just slightly. Just enough that I could hear what was underneath the fury. “I want you to just — for once in your life — admit that you are taking something that belongs to someone else p>

I looked at my sister.

At the anger and the hurt and the years of being the second one, the one who followed, the one who had been handed a marriage contract and told it was an opportunity and had walked into it with her whole self and found nothing waiting on the other side.

I felt complicated things about all of it.

“Delia,” I said.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do the voice p>

“I’m not doing a voice p>

“The soft voice. The let-me-be-reasonable voice. Fuck your reasonable voice, Katia.” She was shaking slightly. “He is my husband. He may not act like it and he may not want to be, but on paper he is mine, and I am asking you — I am telling you — to back the hell off p>

I looked at her for a long moment.

“You came to my house,” I said. “You walked in here and insulted my home, and now you’re telling me to back off from a man who, by your own admission, doesn’t act like your husband and doesn’t want to be.” I picked up my wine glass. “I’m not your problem, Delia. And you know it. You just don’t want to admit where the problem actually is p>

“Go to hell,” she said.

“You know where the door is,” I said.

She stared at me.

Then she picked up her bag and walked out.

The door closed behind her.

I stood in my kitchen and looked at the Brooklyn skyline and drank my wine and thought about everything she had just said and everything I hadn’t.

She had photographs. I needed to call Sam.

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