Page 28 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

shakespeare’s sister

Seren

The text arrives at half past seven on a Tuesday, which is either perfect timing or the worst possible moment, depending on how you feel about emotional ambushes disguised as sisterly concern.

Saw the photos. You looked like shit. Come over. I have wine and actual food.

I stare at my phone, wondering if Hailey Rogers has finally achieved full sociopathic transcendence or if this is what passes for compassion in her carefully curated world.

The fact that I’m even considering it tells me everything I need to know about how broken I am.

When stepping into Hailey’s lair starts looking reasonable for a Tuesday night, you know you’ve hit emotional rock bottom.

My basement flat feels smaller today, the walls slowly creeping inward whilst I wasn’t paying attention.

The white paint that once felt clean and minimalist now resembles the inside of a padded cell.

Even the piano seems to judge me, its keys gleaming with the particular smugness of something neglected.

Address? And please tell me you have actual food, not just whatever influencers pretend to eat .

Her reply is immediate: Chelsea. Obviously. And I ordered from that place in Knightsbridge—the one with the Michelin star and the judgmental waiters.

Of course she did.

But here’s the thing about desperation: it makes you accept invitations from people you wouldn’t normally trust to water your plants. And I’m desperate enough to want someone—anyone—to witness my misery and confirm that yes, it really is as pathetic as it feels.

The Uber driver clearly thinks I’m heading toward some kind of upscale breakdown.

I’m in yesterday’s jeans, a vintage Joy Division tee that’s more hole than fabric, and enough emotional baggage to require its own seat.

He keeps glancing at me in the rear-view mirror, trying to decide if I’m tragic enough to pity or just about famous enough to Google.

“Chelsea, yeah?” he says as we pull up outside a sleek glass building that’s practically flashing a neon sign: Please notice how understatedly expensive I am.

“Lovely,” I mutter, handing over cash and resisting the impulse to ask him to keep driving until we hit the sea.

Hailey’s building is the architectural equivalent of a smug Instagram post. Minimalist, high security, with a doorman who looks at me with the polite disdain afforded to people who clearly don’t belong.

The lift is mirrored, which feels unnecessarily cruel. I look awful—hair reaching an almost sentient level of chaos, dark hollows beneath my eyes that even dim lighting can’t disguise. Perfect. Nothing says stable adult woman than showing up to your half-sister’s in full cryptid chic.

The door to 4B opens before I knock. Hailey’s been watching the security monitor, obviously. Privacy is for people not constantly performing their own existence.

“Christ, Seren, you really do look like shit. ”

But she says it gently, without her usual razor blade tucked in cotton, and that’s how I know something’s off. Hailey without the performance is unsettling, almost certainly a sign one of us is losing touch with reality.

She’s in a massive cashmere jumper, paired with leggings that have never seen a squat. Her hair’s in a messy bun that undoubtedly took thirty minutes and sixteen bobby pins, and she’s not wearing makeup—which is either a power move or a red flag.

“Come in,” she steps aside. “I’ve got wine. The expensive kind.”

Her flat is everything you’d expect—white, gold, curated within an inch of its life. Candles lit. Designer throws folded just so. Art that whispers generational wealth and barely concealed anxiety.

I perch on the edge of the sofa, trying not to ruin the aesthetic. Music plays softly from hidden speakers, familiar and haunting, and then it hits me. Harrison’s voice, curling around lyrics: something about falling, something about flying, something about beautiful disasters.

The track cuts off mid-chorus.

“Sorry,” Hailey calls from the kitchen. “Spotify’s algorithm is a bitch.”

She returns with two glasses of wine and sits beside me with practised elegance. But tonight, the polish feels slightly chipped. There’s something raw beneath the gloss.

“So,” she sips delicately. “Want to tell me what happened, or shall I guess based on the tabloid speculation?”

“The tabloids are speculating?”

She gives me a pitying smile. “Sweetheart, they think you’re pregnant, institutionalised, or staging a PR stunt. Take your pick.”

I laugh. Or try to. It comes out strangled.

“It’s nothing that exciting. Just industry men being... well, industry men. ”

She nods, understanding the code immediately. “Harrison Carter, right?”

I say nothing. My silence is confirmation enough.

“You don’t have to explain,” her tone is uncharacteristically soft. “But you look devastated.”

“That’s... not entirely inaccurate.”

The wine helps. Loosens something. Makes the truth feel slightly less sharp.

“I’m supposed to be flying to LA next week,” I say it casually. “Uncle Vinny’s set up studio time. With the same guy Elementary were recording with. He says it’s time I made something of myself, but of all the studios in LA he picked that one…?”

Hailey’s wine pauses mid-sip. “You think Uncle Vin is in on a Carter shaped ambush?”

The knot that’s been twisting in my stomach since I got back on home soil cranks tighter. “I don’t think he’d do that to me, would he?”

Hailey blinks and then shakes her head. “You’re his favourite. He’d do anything for you, even punch Carter in the face.” Briefly, her face folds before she smooths it away.

“So you’re going back? To LA?”

“It’s where the work is.”

“Right.” Her voice is unreadable. “And you’re ready for that?”

The silence stretches between us, the question settling deep.

“Maybe I need to prove I can be in that world and not fall apart. That I’m not just some girl Harrison... discarded.”

Hailey looks away, then says, almost carefully, “Men like Harrison... they collect women. Proof of status. Accessories.”

“You think that’s what I was to him?”

“I think you scared him. Because you weren’t playing a role. ”

I don’t respond. Can’t. Because the thought is terrifying and possibly true.

“I’ve made choices,” she adds, so softly it’s almost lost. “Ones I thought were clever. Strategic. They weren’t.”

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. We both glance at it—Harrison Carter flashes on the screen before I quickly decline the call. My stomach drops.

“That’s the third time today,” I mutter, turning the phone face down.

Hailey’s expression shifts, something calculating flickering behind her eyes. “He’s been calling you?”

“I’m not answering.”

“Right. Of course.” But there’s something in her tone now, sharper. “And you’re still planning to go back to LA? Knowing he’s... trying to reach you?”

Suddenly this invitation, this perfectly timed concern, feels less accidental and more calculated.

“Hailey,” I say slowly. “Why did you really ask me here?”

She takes a long sip of wine, buying time. “Because you looked like you needed someone.”

“I needed someone, or you needed something?”

For a moment, the mask slips entirely. She looks younger, more uncertain. “Maybe both.”

The honesty catches me off guard. I was expecting deflection, manipulation. Not this raw admission.

“What do you want to know?”

“If you’re really over him. If going back to LA is about the music or about trying to win him back.”

The question hits harder than it should. “Why does it matter to you?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, staring into her wine. “Because I care about you. Despite evidence to the contrary.”

“Since when?”

“Since always, maybe. Just because I’m shit at showing it doesn’t mean it’s not there. ”

There’s something in her voice I’ve never heard before. Vulnerability, maybe. Or regret.

“The thing about Harrison,” she continues, “he has a type. Complicated brunettes with daddy issues.”

I smile bitterly. “So I’m just another variation.”

“No,” she says firmly, but then I can see her rebuilding her walls in real time. “If you’re going back... just be careful. That city has a way of making you forget who you are. And he’ll forget you the minute it becomes convenient.”

I want to defend him. Say she’s wrong. But I’ve already started to forget who I was with him. That’s the problem.

We talk about other things after that. Family dinner. Our narcissist father. The exhausting performance of pretending to be okay when neither of us is.

And when I leave, she hugs me. Real, not performative.

“You’re stronger than you think, Ser,” she says. “Don’t let LA shrink you.”

Her words follow me all the way home.

Because maybe she’s not the villain. Maybe she’s just another girl who got burned by the same industry, the same type of men, the same impossible choices.

Just another daughter trying to survive Damon Rogers’ legacy.

And maybe the people closest to us aren’t villains or heroes. Maybe they’re just the ones with the most power to break our hearts.

Maybe that’s what family is.

And maybe that’s the problem.