Page 2 of Collide (The Rhapsody of Heartbeats #1)

“The apartment is…a few blocks down from us, and I’m having it renovated,” Philippa adds, clapping her hands together, showing her giant sparkling engagement ring. And there it is. Yet another reminder of something missing in my life.

Someone.

I spent over two years drowning in grief after my mother died, and before that…

I was already grieving, losing her piece by piece, the moment they diagnosed her.

Dating? Love? None of it mattered. I had enough excuses to steer clear of relationships, especially the kind of guys back home who were only interested in a quick thrill before moving on.

I wasn’t jealous of Philippa, only jealous she didn’t have to carry the burden I did. The burden of knowing the truth.

“Thanks, Pip, I’m sure it’s beautiful,” I murmur, turning my head and leaning back into the seat to look out at the window, sinking into the storm cloud brewing inside me.

The walls were thin, but even if they weren’t, I would have heard every word. I was five, maybe six, sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the door, fingers curled into the hem of my dress.

“Make your decision. I will not let you take both girls, Vida. So, decide—one or none!”

Papa’s voice was sharp, unwavering, each syllable like the crack of a whip. The air was thick with tension, the kind a child doesn’t fully understand but still feels deep in their bones. Though muffled by the door, his voice hit me like a fist to the chest.

“Mortimer, you cannot make me choose!” Mama’s plea cracked, raw with desperation. “Please, let me have my girls. We will share them evenly.”

“Vida, you’re the one who wants to leave.

If you can’t decide, take Eleanor. She’s younger.

She’ll need you more.” His words echoed in my mind like a painful, unrelenting mantra.

I remember it stinging, the way my tiny hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. I felt a hollow ache inside, as if someone had scooped me out and left me empty.

My breath hitched, but I swallowed the sobs, refusing to cry, I won’t let him know how this breaks me.

The cold realization settled in, deep and unforgiving—Papa didn’t want me.

“Philippa needs me, too, Monty. You cannot make me choose!” Mama’s voice was faint and trembling. And then...silence. My father’s cold, final response came. “It’s decided.”

“Elena,” a soft voice murmurs. I blink, my mind snapping back to the present. Philippa’s gentle hand on my shoulder, her worried gaze searching mine. “We’re here. Are you okay?”

I must have dozed off. My hand instinctively reaches up to wipe my face, realizing then I’ve been crying, though I can’t remember when I started. How pathetic.

“Yeah,” I croak, my throat tight, choking back tears. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

But I’m not. Not really. My fingers curl against my palms, my breath unsteady as I push the memory back down where it belongs. The ache in my chest lingers, heavy and suffocating, a dull reminder of wounds never quite healed.

I haven’t thought about that day in years. About how he made Mom choose between us, like we were possessions, something to be divided. She didn’t deserve that, especially when it wasn’t her fault. It was his .

And I…I didn’t deserve to be overlooked like I always was.

But it wasn’t just that moment. It was everything that came after.

His cold, indifferent gestures of ‘love’—expensive gifts, business deals, all the ways he tried to win me over without actually seeing me.

I wanted so badly to matter to him. To not be an afterthought.

But all I ever got was the distant, indifferent side of him, like I was a shadow in his life.

Philippa was the one he could control, the one who fit into his perfect little world.

And yet here I am, a bundle of daddy issues—mad, sad, and angry, carrying years of insecurity and feeling like I was never enough.

He has a special way of making my blood boil at the mere thought of him. How can I even begin to rebuild a relationship with him?

I promised my mom I would try—a promise I’m really struggling with and now regretting.

My sister and her fiancé, Andrew, live in a restored 1920s building—one of many owned by Father, no doubt.

The lobby is all sand-colored marble, deep oak architraves, opulent furnishings, and in the back, a pair of golden elevators. It drips old-world charm, the very definition of Old Money. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the pretentious Upper East Side of Manhattan.

Though even I have to admit—it’s beautiful.

“It’s a gorgeous building, isn’t it?” Philippa remarks as she presses ‘PH3’ on the elevator.

I nod.

“Father and I bought this condemned building and restored it to its former glory, with some upgrades. It was my first project,” she continues proudly.

I can’t help the flicker of jealousy. She was the daughter he wanted—I wasn’t. She followed his path and stepped right into the family business. And me? I was the reminder of everything he didn’t approve of, a disappointment he hadn’t figured out what to do with.

Walking into Philippa’s home feels like stepping into a magazine spread. The penthouse is extravagant—sleek lines, soft lighting, everything perfectly in place. It looks like something straight out of Architectural Digest .

The elevator doors open into a private foyer with an ornate oak door.

Inside, the open living space stretches wide, two grand glass windows framing the city and Central Park.

The walls are a soft cream, matching the furniture, contrasted by oak trim throughout.

Everything is soft, plush, and thoughtfully arranged, with tall green plants peppered across the space.

Fresh flowers sit in crystal vases—pieces I recognize from our parents’ wedding set—adorning the tables. Understated artwork hangs on the walls, offering small bursts of color. The entire place glows under the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows.

It feels like another world up here, high above the noise. Everything seems delicate and untouchable. Nothing like the chaos below.

My temporary bedroom is just as beautiful. The theme flows seamlessly from one room to the next, every detail intentional.

This room has a large window, too, flooding everything with warm light, a perfect view of Central Park stretched below—lush and green, a cinematic oasis tucked inside a concrete maze.

I feel out of place.

It’s nothing like the modest home we had back in Australia.

“Hope this room is okay,” says Philippa, dropping my duffle on the bed.

“Pip, it’s more than okay, it’s incredible.” I smile, sitting on the bed. “Thank you for letting me crash here.” I really do appreciate her and Andrew letting me stay. Sometimes I feel like a stranger to her, even though she’s never made me feel like one.

We were forced to grow up apart, spending only weeks together at a time, shuttled back and forth across the ocean, missing out on milestones. As soon as we settled into a comfortable understanding, we’d be ripped apart, and the cycle would start again. Year after year.

“It’s our pleasure.” She smiles, emphasizing our as she toys with her ring again.

I swallow the feeling before it shows. Philippa has someone special—Andrew.

She has the security of love, the warmth of companionship.

And she has our father. It’s hard not to compare our circumstances.

I’ve never been in love, never really had a boyfriend serious enough to be considered a relationship.

“Are you excited about the wedding?” I ask, trying to push those thoughts out of my head.

A huge grin erupts on her face, her cheeks rosy.

“Yes,” she gushes, and begins poring over the details she’s yet to finalize, all in one breath. She’s giddy over their honeymoon plans to the Caribbean on an island owned by one of Father’s associates.

Surprisingly, she had asked me to be her maid of honor, but I guess it would be a poor look if I weren’t. It’s set to be the biggest event of the social calendar, as she has reminded me on more than one occasion.

I’m happy for my sister, truly. She has love and a future mapped out with someone who adores her. And me? I’m sure I know what love is supposed to feel like.

“It’ll be beautiful.” Half smiling, I brush those thoughts away as quickly as they creep back in, knowing it will do nothing to help my dampened mood.

“Anyway, you settle in, I have lunch to prepare. If you need anything, let me know,” she says, moving toward the door.

“I’m good. Thanks again,” I murmur, pushing off the bed and pulling her into a genuine hug. “I’ve missed you.”

The last time I saw my sister was at Mom’s funeral. After that, it was supposed to be my turn to visit, but I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t board a plane. Couldn’t face the world. Time passed. People moved on. I didn’t.

Now I’m here. And for the first time in a long while, I want to be. A chance to make up for the time we’ve lost.

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispers into my ear, her hold lingering a little longer than expected. When she pulls away, she clears her throat, as if shaking off the moment. “Get freshened up. Dad’s coming over soon.”

“Great.” I sigh sarcastically. I’m not ready. But maybe it doesn’t matter.

Five years of silence didn’t disappear with a flight and a packed suitcase. Still, I am here. In his city. In his world. And whether I like it or not, there is no avoiding him now.

I don’t know what I’ll say. Or if I’ll say anything at all. But I’ll show up.

This is me trying.

Trying not to flinch.

Trying not to run.

Trying to be the daughter he never really saw.

And like a silent prayer, I hope trying will be enough.