Chapter 3
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My face was puffy when I woke up. Judging by the dull ache in my spine, I hadn’t budged from the couch all night–I must’ve cried myself to sleep.
And I was running late.
I shot up, heart pounding, realizing I hadn’t made breakfast. The one non–negotiable they expected from me–every single morning.
As I bolted into the kitchen, Logan’s voice cut through the air from the dining room.
“Where have you been?” he snapped the moment I stepped in. “Still in bed at this hour?-And where’s breakfast?”
Before I could get a word out, Lauren strolled in, spatula in hand, acting like nothing was
wrong.
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“Relax,” she said cheerily. “I’ve already started cooking. She looked tired, so I figured I’d let my sister sleep a bit longer.”
“No!” Logan barked, voice hard. “She should be ashamed. Sleeping in while you, our guest, are in the kitchen? She does nothing all day, and now she’s dumping her one job on you?”
He turned to glare at me. “You should show some gratitude to the people feeding you. Try being useful for once.”
I lowered my eyes and brushed past Lauren. “It’s fine, I murmured. “I’ll take over. You can go sit down.”
Lauren smiled lightly and tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s really not a big deal. I’m just chopping veggies. Don’t make it into something it’s not.”
Before I could respond, our dad walked in and set his coffee on the table.
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“Even if it’s just chopping” he said calmly, “you shouldn’t be doing it, Lauren. Your hands weren’t made for this kind of work. You’re a designer, not a maid. Let Penelope handle the kitchen–that’s her role.”
“It’s okay, Dad,” Lauren said with a quiet chuckle, grabbing a knife anyway. “I can help.”
“No, seriously, let me do it,” I insisted, reaching for the knife.
But she didn’t let go. Not wanting to cause a scene, I backed off.
We stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, chopping in stiff silence–until-
“Agh!” Lauren cried out suddenly.
Her knife clattered to the floor. Blood ran
from a cut on her finger. Logan burst into the kitchen in a panic.
What the bell happened21” he yelled.
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“What the hell happened?!” he yelled, grabbing her hand. “You’re bleeding! Goddammit, Lauren, your hand! Do you even realize how important that is? You’ve got a presentation next week!”
“It’s okay. It’s just a little-”
Logan rounded on me before she could finish.
“This is on you! You worthless woman! You couldn’t even handle chopping vegetables without getting someone else hurt?!”
I froze. “I–I didn’t-”
It didn’t matter. Lauren tried to speak up for me, but no one heard her over the shouting. Everyone surrounded her, dabbing at her wound, blaming me for something I didn’t even do.
And I never got the chance to say I was injured too
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The gash on my hand–leftover from cleaning up that shattered vase–had split open again while working in the kitchen.
But no one saw.
So I quietly slipped away, my bleeding hand tucked beneath my apron, and returned to my room.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, peeled away the soggy bandage, and pressed a clean towel to the cut. It throbbed, but not as much as the silence did.
Then the door slammed open.
Logan.
“Apologize to Lauren,” he ordered.
I stared at him. “It wasn’t my fault. She wanted to help. It was an accident.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.
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You’re still responsible. Say you’re sorry.”
“I didn’t hurt her”
“I don’t care. Just do it.”
Before I could argue back, Lauren walked in, her bandaged hand cradled gently.
“It’s fine” she said softly. “There’s no need for that. My sister’s not to blame. I chose to help.”
I nodded stiffly, even though my throat burned
Lauren looked at Logan. “Anyway, we should talk about the trip. It’s just three days away.”
“Oh, right,” Logan said, his tone lightening immediately. “Milan. Business trip. I’ll need you to pack for us. I’m going, Lauren’s going, and your dad’s coming too.”
Milan.
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Milan.
My heart skipped a beat.
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“Can I come?” The words slipped out before I could catch them.
Both of them stared at me.
Logan let out a cold laugh. “You? Penelope, this isn’t some vacation. It’s a business trip. You wouldn’t even be able to follow the conversations. You’d embarrass us.”
“I could just-”
“No,” he cut me off. “This trip is for work. Lauren’s part of the brand pitch. You’d stick out‘ like a sore thumb. You don’t even have the right clothes.”
“I could-”
“She’s staying,” he said bluntly to Lauren. “She can take care of things here while we’re gone.”
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Lauren paused, her gaze flicking to me with something that could’ve been pity–or just good acting.
“We’ll bring you something nice,” she said with a thin smile.
I forced a nod, but I felt it. The heat building behind my eyes. The tightness in my throat. The heavy knot I swallowed every single day.
Then they laughed.
Not cruel. Just casual. The kind of laughter that fills a room when people are comfortable. When they forget someone else is even there.
Like I was a punchline. Like I was invisible.
Their voices drifted down the hall–chatting about Milan, outfits, where to eat, what kind of photos to take.
I turned around, stepped into my room, and
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quietly shut the door behind me.
No tears this time.
Just stillness.
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My body moved on autopilot. I pulled the suitcase from under the bed, unfolded shirts, checked packing lists, laid out Lauren’s makeup, folded Logan’s suits. I didn’t think- I just did what I always did: make everyone else’s life easier while mine stayed boxed up and untouched.
But then I saw it–Logan’s laptop.
Still open, its screen casting a soft glow from the nightstand, like it had been waiting for me to notice.
I froze.
Then I stepped closer.
One click was all it took.
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Chapter 3
And there it was.
A picture–crystal clear.
e
Logan, sharp in a tailored suit. Lauren, radiant in a white dress, beaming like she’d already won.
Behind them, the Palazzo Mezzanotte blurred into a background of golden lights.
Folder title: Pre–nup photoshoot – Milan.
I scrolled again.
The wedding date.
The same one I’d seen in that email.
It was all real.
They weren’t even pretending anymore.
I stared at the screen.
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But no tears came.
Instead, I reached for my phone.
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I dialed the gallery–the one I’d once slipped into alone, where the walls were filled with stunning photos that whispered of strength and elegance.
I remembered how the assistant had smiled when I paused in front of the bridal portraits.
The phone rang once. Twice.
“How can I help you?”
I inhaled deeply, steadying myself. Then I answered-
“I’d like to book a wedding shoot. A pre–nup session.”
“Certainly, ma’am. The name of the bride and groom?”
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I hesitated.
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Then a small, quiet smile touched my lips.
“There’s no groom,” I said. “Just the bride. Just me.”
Because this time, I was choosing myself.
