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“Now, you stop it! Don’t you dare apologize for giving me a roof over my head.” I smile. “I really appreciate it.”

“You should probably get rid of those before they melt into your skin and you overdose.” She gestures toward my palm.

“I’d love to sleep for a week, though.” I push to stand and shuffle to the bathroom. After flushing the pills, I wash my hands.

“You don’t want your brother to know.” Cora leans against the door frame, her assumption about my reasons for avoiding Celeste right on the money.

I nod. “Celeste wouldn’t be able to keep it from him. And I don’t want her to be in that position. And I certainly don’t want him to come to the rescue. I need to fix it myself.”

“Why?”

Her question throws me off. Why?

I dry my hands, avoiding her gaze. Why?

Because I don’t want Cal to judge me. I don’t want to hear him sigh and go into rescue mode.

Because all my life, people have been taking care of my affairs. First, because I didn’t have a choice—my parents, my brothers. Later, because it was just easier.

It’s time I take care of myself. If only the task didn’t feel so daunting.

“He would throw his money at the problem. I don’t want that.”

Cora huffs. “Can he throw his money at all my problems?”

She’s been struggling to keep her father’s bistro afloat. She’s the most hardworking person I know, and yet she can’t get ahead.

“Would youreallyaccept that?”

She frowns.

“I’m serious, Cora; let’s say it’s not my brother, but someone else who would have the means and the will to help you out. Would you just accept their financial help?”

She stares at me, her jaw tense, and then she sighs.

“I thought so.”

It might be pride, but accepting money doesn’t come easy to a woman. Even if that woman is in a desperate situation. Fuck, most of us have a block to ask for any help, let alone financial.

I walk out of the bathroom. In the kitchen, I fill a glass with tap water and gulp it down. The two pills I took are still trying to claim my brain, the fog not yet lifted.

Putting the glass down, I turn and lean against the counter. Cora sits on one of the two chairs at her small dining table by the window.

She says nothing. It’s like she knows I need to let it all out, but prompting me won’t help.

“Perhaps my pride is misplaced in this case, but I can’t help it. It’s there. Besides, I quit my job, and I’m physically sick at the idea of returning to it. So everything in my life is in flux.”

“You quit?” She stands and pulls two wineglasses from her cupboard. Retrieving a bottle of white wine from her fridge, she fills them to the brim. “We need this. What are you going to do?”

“I have no fucking idea.” I accept the glass, and we both sit at her table.

The kitchen reminds me of the one I shared with other girls during my first year modeling in Milan. There were six of us sharing three bedrooms.

The kitchen only had a counter, with a fridge and a stove on one side of the narrow space and a table with two chairs on the other side. I used to sit on the counter when I ate from a takeout container.

After having lived in the van den Linden mansion, it was a shock to my system. I loved it.

“The timing sucks. Why would you quit if you’re broke?” she asks with a genuine interest, and while I’m looking for signs of condemnation or judgment, there are none. And frankly, it’s a valid question.