Page 11 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

"Karma?" I cross the living room into the tiny bedroom.

"Summer?" My sister glances up from her embroidery machine.

Her dark hair flows around her face. Her skin seems paler than usual.

I sink down on the bed across from her, "You okay?."

Her amber eyes flare. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason." I shuffle my feet.

"No breathlessness, no numb fingers or toes. The hole in my heart hasn't eaten me up completely." Her lips thin. "Yet."

"Why do you get so defensive about your condition?"

"Umm, let's see." She holds up a finger tipped with black nail-polish, "Because I'm trying to live and you keep thrusting my disease in my line of sight every time you bring it up?"

I draw in a sharp breath. "That's being uncharitable. Just because I worry about you and do my best to take care of you—"

"—doesn't make you my mother."

All the blood drains from my face. Bet I'm as pale as her, though on Karma, her dark goth get-up enhances her luminous beauty.

On me... bet I am as chalky as the paint on the wall behind her.

"Hell, sorry, Summer." She blows out a breath. "I'm more on edge than usual. Tomorrow's market day, so I need to get my clothes done in time. I need to be at Camden Market before 5 am so..." She raises her shoulders.

"Right, I'll leave you to it then."

I jump up, head for the door.

"Summer, stop."

I cross the floor to the small counter on the far side that doubles as our kitchen. Fill a glass with water from the tap and drink from it.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier." Karma pauses at the doorway to the bedroom.

"You know how to get to me, don't you?" I firm my lips.

"My specialty, Sis. Chalk it up to my teenage hormones."

I snort, then turn and lean a hip against the counter, "You're almost as clever with words as you are with your clothing designs."

She holds up a hand, "Uh, oh, I sense a Summer sermon, coming on."

"Don't be ridiculous." I redden. "It's just, I don't understand why you'd give up a paid fashion scholarship at Central Saint Martins..."

"They were too mainstream." She sets her jaw.

"What's wrong with that?" I throw up my hands.

"Do you see what you're wearing?"

I glance down at myself, "You made it." I raise my shoulders. "It's offbeat but... it mirrors my personality."

"Exactly." She tosses her head, "My ideas are too... off-beat for their sensibilities."

"So?" I tilt my chin up, "You could have... adjusted..."