Page 51

I reached the third floor landing, kicked off my shoes, and pushed open my apartment door.
And froze.
There they were.
All of them.
Jessa stood just inside, arms folded, jaw tight.
To her left, Marisol, wide-eyed and visibly anxious, arms crossed like she was preparing for an ambush.
Lena, looking more “resting bitch face” than ride-or-die at the moment.
Teresa, shifting her weight and glancing at the floor sheepishly.
Madame Odette, matriarch of the Charleston Crescent Ballet, resplendent in her signature black. Her cane stood sentinel by her side, but it was the glare that threatened to take me down.
Emmaline, my sister, in a modest wrap dress that screamed Texas and judgment.
And next to her?
A middle-aged woman in tortoiseshell glasses, hair in a bun, holding a clipboard like a shield. The kind of calm only years of therapy—or wine—could teach.
No one spoke.
Not at first.
Glasses and Bun cleared her throat. “Vivienne?—”
I held up a hand. “Stop.”
I scanned the room again, the arrangement suddenly too tidy, too deliberate. My favorite throw pillows placed just so. Candles lit. Bottled water on the table.
“Oh, my God,” I said, a dry laugh escaping. “This is an intervention.”
“Vivi—” Jessa started.
“No. Don’t you Vivi me right now.” I pointed at her, then at Emmaline. “And you? You live a thousand miles away and never call. What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”
“We’re here because we love you,” Emmaline said smoothly, already on script. “And we’re concerned.”
“Concerned?” I barked. “About what?”
Glasses and Bun spoke up, her tone calm but clinical, like she was trying not to startle a wild animal. That’s when it clicked.
Of course. A therapist.
“This is about destructive behaviors,” she said evenly. “About patterns. Risk. Isolation.”
“Isolation?” I spun around to face them. “I’ve had more people in this apartment in the last ten minutes than in the last six months. You want to talk about isolation? Try growing up in a house where silence was a weapon.”
No one spoke.
Good.
Because I wasn’t done.
“You think I’m an addict?” My voice cracked, the laugh that followed brittle and cold. “You think this is about drugs?”