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One of the tabby cats—Isis—was lounging on the counter.

Again.

Anthea had been working in her home office for most of Saturday now. Her fingers refused to move. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t want to—her mind protested every word she tried to type. But she needed to do it, needed to finish it before Monday.

She wanted a drink?—

"Ariadne," she snapped, spotting her youngest sister on a barstool next to the kitchen island, scrolling through her phone. "Could you—for once—take responsibility for these hell-spawned furballs of yours?!" She pointed angrily to the counter. "How many times do we have to go over this? Cats are not allowed on the counters."

"They’re just cats. What do you want me to do, put them on a leash?" Ariadne offered a mere shrug in response.

“Your lack of responsibility is mind-boggling,” Anthea muttered, moving to their liquor cabinet and retrieving a bottle of whiskey. She jostled a few cubes of ice into a glass, and the amber liquid flowed.

Ari rolled her eyes—green, the same as their mother's—and got up from the stool. “Alright, alright, no need to go all dictator on me. I get it, okay?” She picked up the cat. “Oh, hush, Isis. Don’t listen to her. She’s so grumpy. Oh yes, she is,” she cooed at the striped feline. Anthea’s hand paused as she glanced at her youngest sister, the rim of the glass brushing her lips.

“Did you at least pick up my dry cleaning?” The blank look on Ari’s face answered her question before her sister even opened her mouth. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I asked you for one thing! You had the car all day!”

“I forgot, okay?” Ari’s tone was defensive. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“Like what?” Anthea shot back. “Did you also forget the dry cleaners are closed on Sundays? You know I need it on Monday. I have an important meeting!”

“Another rich asshole you’re trying to scrub clean? Do you ever think about the victims when you’re working your PR magic?”

Anthea’s breath hitched. She put the glass down and lifted the bottle to pour more whiskey into it. “I’m just trying to keep this house afloat. Maybe if you stepped up occasionally, you’d understand that.”

“Stepping up doesn’t mean selling out.”

“Guess what? It pays the bills—it keeps the lights on. That’s what being responsible?—”

“You’re always lecturing me about responsibilities . . .,” her sister cut her off, her voice rising. “Maybe you should look in the mirror. Take a step back—go out more. You know, meet some people, let your hair down, perhaps even get laid. Give some rest to the toys in your bedroom.” Anthea’s fingers tightened around the glass, the hard edges digging into her palm. She wanted to strangle Ari. She loved her—but she wanted to strangle her. The laugh that bubbled up from Anthea’s chest was dry and bitter, filling the space between them with no trace of mirth.

“I’d love to. I would absolutely adore spending my time sipping martinis and flirting with strangers. But enlighten me, who would then pay the bills? Who would keep this house running while I’m out prancing around town?”

“You’re the one who’s always wanted to play house, Thea. Not me. Not Treia. You. You’re the one insisting we all live here. Maybe it’s time we try something else.”

“Maybe,” Anthea fired back, “it’s time you started pulling your weight around here. But that’s a lot to ask of someone who can’t even manage to take care of two cats, isn’t it?” The whiskey in her glass suddenly seemed even more appealing. She raised it to her lips, the smell of aged barley and peat filling her senses. With a defiant tilt of her head, she swallowed the whole glass, feeling its warmth spread in her chest. “If you can’t control those beasts, maybe we should take them back to the shelter.” The words slipped from her mouth like venom, their bitter aftertaste tainting her tongue. She regretted them immediately; the hurt on her sister’s face was too much.

Ariadne recoiled. “You’re such a control freak!” she spat, causing Isis to jump from her lap. “They’re just cats! They don’t know any better. But you . . . you should?—”

Anthea retreated back to her office—her sanctuary. The chill of whiskey in her glass was a cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless. She knew she had been too harsh and too angry, but she couldn’t help it. Taking a large sip, she savored the warmth it brought. They would make up with Ari later; they always did.

The harsh glare of the computer screen pulled her back to the case, the relentless demands of her job refusing to be ignored. Anthea wasn’t stupid. It was clear: another classic case of workplace harassment. And now it was her job to spin it around, to brush it away.

Anthea rubbed her face. She wanted to break something.

The company wanted the CEO to stay and was willing to pay for it. Her boss had told her if they could pull it off, there would be a substantial bonus waiting for her. She took another sip of her third glass of whiskey and started to type. Under her skilled hands, a new narrative of shared responsibility started to take shape.

Drowning the last of the whiskey in her glass, her eyes drifted over the words she had just strung together. A wave of guilt washed over her, bringing an unsettling sense of doubt?—

A recurring thought slipped into her mind: How many more of these sordid tales would she have to scrub clean before securing her own suite in hell? Ariadne was right—she was selling out. But she didn’t know how to stop, didn’t know any other way to keep everything running smoothly. Sometimes, she hated this house, the very house and the debt that came with it.

Anthea shook her head, banishing the doubts that threatened to cloud her mind. She couldn’t afford to falter. This was the world she lived in, and she just had to make do.

Her fingers absently traced the edge of her empty glass. She wanted another drink. Then, her phone buzzed—a text from her colleague Amanda, inviting her to a club. Ari’s words echoed in her mind.

You need to get laid and get out of the house.