Page 18 of It’s Me, but Different (Merriweather Sisters #3)

Sloane

“Good evening, perfect world,” I murmur while putting on makeup to go find Esme at her suite.

As I walk through the hallways, with a bouquet of roses in my hand, I hum an old song. Outside, the sunlight begins to disappear, and the mountains glow under light that seems like something from a fantasy movie.

Today, everything seems possible.

“Esme? It's me. I brought you a surprise,” I announce, swaying nervously from one leg to the other like a little girl.

Silence.

“Esme?” I insist, knocking a little harder.

Nothing.

I have a strange feeling and start to feel a tightness in my chest that reminds me too much of those months after my injury, when anxiety attacks and depression were constant. Trembling, I search my pocket for the master key all us sisters have for emergencies and that I've never used in my life.

“Esme? Ana Sofia? Theo?”

The suite is empty.

Not just empty. Empty as if they'd never been here. There's no trace of clothes or suitcases. Their things aren't in the bathroom either. She's even left a window open to air it out.

The bouquet of roses falls from my hands, and the flowers scatter across the floor along with my hopes.

“No, no, no. This can't be happening, fuck,” I murmur, slamming the closet door shut.

I leave the room and run downstairs, not even bothering to call the elevator. I need an explanation.

“Sarah?” I gasp, leaning on the counter. “Esme Torres, she was in one of the suites. Why isn't she there anymore?”

The young receptionist looks at me strangely.

“She left about an hour ago, Miss Merriweather,” she responds, confused.

“She left? Where?” I insist, raising my voice more than necessary.

“I don't know. But… but she left this.”

Sarah hands me a white envelope with my name written in large letters, and my fingers tremble so much I can barely open it.

The letter is brief, but harsh. Cruel. It's as if she chose each word just to hurt me. And the worst part is I don't understand why.

“Sloane,

Congratulations. Your plan worked perfectly. The naive 20-year-old college student no longer exists, but apparently I'm still stupid enough to fall for your games.

Thanks for reminding me why I don't trust people with money. You've always believed you can buy whatever you want. Even feelings.

Well, surprise. That's not the case anymore. I won't make the same mistake twice. You've made it clear that you have indeed changed, but for the worse. Now you've outdone yourself. You're the most despicable being I've ever met in my entire life.

PS: Give Harper my thanks for the performance. She almost convinced me the job was real. She's right, sometimes the best plans are the ones that seem like perfect coincidences.

Esme”

The world crumbles around me.

I read each line over and over, hoping the letters will magically change and suddenly say something different. Something that won't completely destroy me.

“Your plan worked perfectly.”

What the fuck is she talking about? My breathing becomes shallow, too fast. Air doesn't reach my lungs properly, they struggle to expand, as if someone had placed a concrete slab on my chest.

“The naive 20-year-old college student no longer exists.”

My hands shake so much I grip the letter tightly. The paper crinkles between my fingers. Plan? What plan? She said she loved me. She said the decision to stay was practically made. Her hands on my skin, the whispers in my ear, the way she looked at me after making love.

All lies?

“Thanks for reminding me why I don't trust people with money.”

I don't understand anything. This is all fucking crazy. A sharp buzzing pierces my ears. The reception area starts spinning around me like a crazed merry-go-round. Other guests' voices become a distant murmur. My heart speeds up so much I feel like it's going to shoot out of my chest any second.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

I grip the counter so hard my knuckles hurt. The wood feels like the only solid material I can hold onto while everything moves.

“You've always believed you can buy whatever you want. Even feelings.”

The floor under my feet becomes unstable. It tilts slowly to the left, then to the right, as if the entire hotel were inside a ship in a storm.

“I won't make the same mistake twice.”

The words explode in my mind like bombs. My vision narrows until it becomes a dark tunnel. The edges turn black, advancing toward the center like pouring black ink into a glass of water.

My fingers loosen. I can't feel my hands anymore. I feel nothing, except sharp pain in my chest, as if someone wanted to rip my heart out with their hands.

“PS: Give Harper my thanks for the performance. She almost convinced me the job was real.”

And that last sentence destroys what little is left of me.

The world tilts at an impossible angle. My knees bend, but there's no strength left in them to hold me up. The letter falls to the floor, floating in slow motion like a leaf carried by autumn wind.

I fall.

It's not an elegant fall. It's not like in movies. It's a collapse. I crash against the floor with a dull thud that makes customers scream.

The impact resonates through my skull like an echo in an empty cathedral. I taste blood where I bit my tongue, but the physical pain is almost a relief compared to the agony tearing me apart inside.

I can't move.

I can't get up.

I can't do anything except stay here, on the floor of my own hotel's reception, trembling like an animal that's been beaten so cruelly it no longer dares to move.

“Miss Merriweather!” Sarah's voice sounds like it's coming from the other end of a very long tunnel. “Someone call a doctor, please!”

But no doctor can cure this. No medicine can fix a heart that's been trampled into dust.

I close my eyes and let darkness swallow me. It's easier than facing a world where Esme hates me again and I don't even know why.

A world where I've lost the only person I've truly loved.

Lost. I've lost her again.

And this time, forever.

“Sloane!”

My older sister tries to lift me while I disintegrate into a thousand pieces.

“She's gone, Harper,” I sob against her shoulder. “She says it was all a lie.”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Trembling, I clumsily point toward the letter with my index finger. I watch her read it, how her expression changes from confusion to horror.

“Fuck, Sloane. What happened?”

“I have no idea,” I admit with a sigh that can barely be heard.

“Oh, fuck. What a mess!” Harper mutters through her teeth.

“What's going on?”

“I think I know what happened,” she sighs.

“Will you fucking talk already?”

“She must have heard fragments of the conversation in my office. Look at this,” she indicates, pointing to a phrase in the letter. “The plan worked perfectly. Sometimes the best plans are the ones that seem like perfect coincidences.”

“Fuck, the Switzerland hotel,” I whisper.

“Exactly. The acquisition you recommended after your trip two months ago,” my sister confirms. “She thought we were talking about her.”

Harper hugs me tightly while I cry, but nothing can calm me now.

“You have to explain to her that it was all a misunderstanding,” she insists.

“She went to Denver. She's probably already accepted that shitty job that will keep her away from her children.”

“Then go after her.”

I look at her as if she's gone crazy.

“Go after her? Harper, you just read the fucking letter. She hates me. She thinks I'm a rich manipulator who plays with people's feelings just for fun.”

“Prove her wrong.”

Six hours later, I'm standing in front of a red brick apartment building in Denver, with red and swollen eyes from crying so much on the plane that I have no tears left.

I've rehearsed a thousand times what I wanted to say. I've practiced every word, every gesture, every plea.

But now, as I watch the light in the second-floor windows, I'm so nervous I've forgotten everything.

“Esme. It's Sloane. Please, open the door. I need to talk to you,” I beg, knocking with my knuckles.

Silence.

“I know you're there. Just… please, just let me explain. This has all been a terrible misunderstanding.”

More silence.

“It's Sloane, Mom!” Ana Sofia's voice comes from inside.

“Get away from the door,” I hear. “Now.”

“But Mom…”

“I said, get away! To your room!”

I hear the sound of small feet running. A door slamming shut. And then, nothing.

I stay there for two hours, calling occasionally, begging, pleading, knocking until my knuckles are raw.

A man threatens to call the police.

But Esme doesn't open the door.