Page 52

Nic

The toasty warmth of my hot chocolate, the chunky sweater wrapped around me, even the golden sunlight spilling through Lana’s kitchen windows—none of it chases away the chill in my bones.

It’s been sixteen days since David—not that I’m counting.

This house still feels like it’s holding its breath, even more so now that it’s just Lana and me in this mansion. The twins are out fishing with Manny. Bea returned to Valencia this morning. And Kai . . . Kai left for Chicago two nights ago.

I touch my neck, tracing the ghost of his lips, desperately wishing I took him up on his offer to get away from here.

But Lana needs me more than she’ll ever admit.

"I'm thinking peonies for the centerpieces,” I say, scrolling through Pinterest on Lana’s iPad. "Or is that too basic?"

Across from me, Lana sits at the kitchen island, picture-perfect as always. Not a dark hair out of place, her cashmere sweater a decadent beige. She nods absently, turning her hot chocolate mug in slow, aimless circles.

"Peonies are fine,” she says, voice so measured it might as well be poured from a measuring cup.

I press my lips together, fighting a sigh. This was my idea—pushing Lana back into routine, starting with planning her quarterly charity ball. Kai thinks it’s too soon, but I disagree. Routine is healing. Purpose is healing.

But watching Lana move like a beautiful robot, I’m starting to think Kai is right.

“Nic?” Lana's voice pulls me back. She’s watching me with a quiet intensity.

“Sorry, what?”

"Why don’t we swap? Let me handle decor and drinks, and you curate the guest list.” She slides a leather-bound notebook toward me. "I’ve marked the usual suspects, but I’m thinking of a fresh, untapped audience."

The notebook is meticulously organized—tabbed, color-coded, every detail accounted for down to the napkin folds. It’s so perfect it almost hurts.

"Okay,” I say, flipping through the pages. "This is impressive, Lana. You could give professional event planners a run for their money, you know."

A tiny crack appears in her perfect veneer—a small, fleeting smile. "I like things to be organized. It helps me feel grounded."

I know that feeling all too well. “I so get that.” I take a sip of my hot chocolate. "When everything’s spinning, it helps to have that one thing you can control."

Her eyes flick to mine. "Exactly."

For a while, we work in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the scratch of Lana's pen and the occasional tap of my finger against the tablet. It's almost peaceful, but something isn’t right—like the pressure drop before a storm.

Or maybe it’s just me—projecting my own sleep-deprived, post-trauma anxiety.

"How are you sleeping?” I blurt.

Lana’s pen pauses mid-word. "Very well, thanks."

I huff out a slow breath and put my mug aside. "Lana . . . it’s okay not to be fine, you know."

She sets her pen down carefully. "What do you want me to say, Nic? That every waking moment is a nightmare because my brother is a murderous bastard who killed the man I loved to avenge the woman he loves?”

Her voice doesn’t crack or waver, landing like quick slaps. “Would that make you feel better if I said that, Nic?”

"That’s not—I’m only trying to help,” I say kindly.

She laughs, bitter and hollow. "You really want to help? Stop acting like I’ll break."

"You will, if you don’t let anyone in, Lana. If you keep swallowing it down, letting it calcify inside you, pretending it’s not there . . .” I shake my head. "That’s what breaks people. Not grief. Not anger. Silence.” I hold her gaze. "But I know you’re strong. You will come out on top of this."

Her expression hardens like glass cooling too fast. "Damn straight, I will.” Her mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. "Now, let’s focus on the fundraiser, shall we?"

Be patient, Nic. I tell myself. She’s carried decades of abandonment and abuse. And what happened seventeen days ago takes the cake for the most fucked-up shit a person could endure. One conversation over hot chocolate isn’t going to fix her.

I nod, then change the subject. “Do you have a theme in mind for the fundraiser?”

Lana’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. "I do. But I want to hear your ideas first."

I hesitate. "What about a Spring theme? New beginnings, fresh starts . . . Maybe we could even incorporate a survivor theme. Something subtle but meaningful just to us—”

Lana's pen stills. "Us?” She blinks, as if genuinely confused. “What does any of it have to do with you?”

Wait what? “What are you talking about?”

“No offense, but you didn’t survive a thing, Nic. You’re just the girl who bagged herself a rich man who’d burn down the entire world down for her."

The temperature in the room drops at least ten degrees, and I know I’ve just stepped on a landmine I didn't realize was sitting there. Lana resents me.

I take a deep, steadying breath, resisting the urge to snark. She’s lashing out because of how much she’s hurting. How much Kai hurt her. "Lana, I'm sorry if that offended you. We can work with another theme—"

She stands abruptly, moving to the window. Her reflection in the glass is a study in controlled fury. "Why the fuck does my life keep getting ripped to shreds over and over again? What am I, cursed?"

The raw, dark bitterness in her voice breaks me. "You're not cursed,” I say softly.

She laughs, a sharp, brittle sound with no humor in it. "No? Then how is the one person on earth who actually chose me made to vanish without a trace? He doesn’t even have a grave—” She cuts off in a broken sob.

I want to go to her, to offer comfort, but something in her posture warns me away.

"David didn't choose you, Lana,” I say softly. "He used you. Abused you."

She whirls, eyes flashing. "You don’t know jack shit about him!” The vein in her throat pulses. “And to think that I introduced you to him . . . that I took you in despite how clearly desperate you were with your repeated applications. And now you’ve managed to sink your teeth into my brother! I fucking brought this on myself. I deserve this."

Her words are lethal, but I can’t let them wound me. She’s hurting worse. I reach for her hand, needing to connect, to reassure. "Yes, Lana, you’re right, I’m broken too. I was desperate. I know what it's like to be afraid and alone and cling to the wrong things.”

She rips away as if my touch burns. "Don't,” she says, her voice dropping to something dangerous and low. "Don't you dare compare us. You don't know anything about what I've been through."

The rejection stings more than it should. I withdraw, feeling suddenly and inexplicably guilty. I wish Kai were here. Kai is—has always been the one thing Lana has always wanted.

"I'm sorry,” I say again, blinking back tears.

Lana turns away again, hugging her arms.

For the next few minutes, no one speaks.

"No, I’m the one who should be sorry, Nic,” she says. "I’m so ashamed I said those horrid things to you."

I blink at her sudden change in mood. “It’s okay, Lana. I understand.”

She lets me take her arm and gently lead her back to the breakfast bar, like the past five minutes never happened. “Do you want to finish this later, rest a little, maybe?”

"No, actually, I’d like to get back to planning—that’s if you’re still up for it,” she says. "You were right, it’s taking my mind off things.

A shiver of unease goes through me as I see her mask has returned. “Okay.” I sit, but this time let her take the lead.

“Now, can I tell you what I’d like for the fundraiser theme?” Lana asks.

“Of course,” I say with a tight smile.

“I’m thinking of something something . . . cleansing. Water, maybe."

My stomach knots as I echo, "Water?"

She nods. "A chance to wash all the pain and helpless rage away."

I nod slowly, trying to match her sudden enthusiasm. "Water could work. We could do something with the centerpieces, maybe? Mini aquariums with freshwater lilies—"

"I was thinking of a lake, actually.” Lana flips to a new page in her notebook, her pen moving in slow, deliberate strokes. "Lake Orange, specifically."

My stomach tightens. "Lana, Lake Orange is in Valencia,” I say carefully. “Your clients are used to L.A.”

She shrugs. "Well, it’s time for the masks to come off. David was the one person who embraced everything Valencia represented. Kai couldn’t look back, neither could I.” Her pen presses harder against the paper. "But now, I want to start confronting those ghosts. Starting with holding my next fundraiser there."

A strange silence stretches between us.

"Okay.” I say finally, my voice even. "The lake is beautiful, especially at night. But we still need a venue close enough to view it from. There aren’t any as far as I know."

Lana smiles. "I looked up that all-glass restaurant on the pier online,” she murmurs. "They have a function room upstairs. I bet the view from there is unmatched."

I hesitate. "The function room is way too small to hold a Smile with Scars fundraiser, Lana."

A flash of irritation crosses her face, and then she shrugs. "Which is why I want quality over quantity this time. A well-curated guest list, not dozens of twenty bucks-ers."

I nod slowly, chewing on my pen. I can’t blame her for wanting something small. She wasn’t even going to have the fundraiser in the first place. I pushed her to do it.

This is progress, right?

"Alright, I’ll be honest, I’m not sold on the venue yet, but I could check it out today. Take some photos and get a feel for the space."

Lana hesitates, her pen hovering mid-air before she taps it twice against the paper. "I could come with you."

Her voice is casual, but something about the way she says it makes me pause. For a second, I consider it—but then I shake my head. "No need for that,” I say lightly. "You've done enough today. Let me handle it."

A shadow passes over her face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by her usual polished control. "If you insist.”

"I do,” I say firmly. “Besides, I won’t be going alone. Barry will be my second set of eyes.”

Her smile seems genuine this time. "You’re stubborn, you know that? You’re just like Kai."

I beam. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn’t entirely meant as one,” she says lightly, but the edge in her voice cuts like a knife.