Jillian sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers still resting on the screen where her father's call had ended. She didn't move for a long while, the weight of his words pressing down like lead. Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft buzz of her phone again—Celeste.
She stared at the name.
After a pause, she picked up. "Hello?"
"Jillian," came the smooth, almost distant voice of her half-sister. "I'm not calling to convince you."
Jillian said nothing.
"I just thought you should hear it from me," Celeste continued. "No one's forcing me. This isn't one of Father's schemes."
Jillian exhaled slowly, fingers brushing her temple. "Then what is it?"
"A choice," Celeste replied. "Mine."
Jillian couldn't help the low hum of disbelief in her voice. "You chose this? To be married off like a deal signed behind closed doors?"
"You don't know everything, Jill," Celeste snapped, cool but defensive. "I didn't expect you to understand. I just wanted you to come."
Jillian leaned back against the headboard, eyes on the ceiling. "Why? So I can smile and play along like we're sisters?"
There was silence on the line, then Celeste's voice, softer now but clipped. "No. Because it's happening whether you approve or not. And I'd rather not do it alone."
The line went dead before Jillian could reply.
She lowered the phone slowly, the silence of her apartment suddenly louder than before. Something unspoken lingered in Celeste's words—not affection, not warmth… but something close to vulnerability.
Jillian stared at the ceiling, unsure if she was being invited as a sister… or as a witness.
Jillian stood in the quiet stillness of her apartment, phone still in hand. The call replayed in her mind—Celeste's voice, calm and cold, laced with something unspoken. She didn't owe her anything. Not warmth, not support, not even her presence.
But still… she would go.
Not for the marriage. Not for her father. Not even for Celeste.
She needed to see it for herself. Needed to know what was real.
Jillian grabbed her coat, already mentally drafting the email she'd send to rearrange her hospital schedule. Decision made.
She was going home.
The following morning, Jillian stood in the doorway of her supervisor's office, her grip tight around the strap of her shoulder bag.
The hospital bustled behind her—monitors beeping, footsteps echoing, murmured conversations—but her thoughts were already far from it.
"I need a few days," she said, her voice steady.
Her supervisor studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Family?"
Jillian offered a tight smile. "Something like that."
No more was said. Papers were signed. Shifts reassigned. She walked out of the hospital without explanation, leaving behind the comfort of the one place that made sense.
By the time the plane began to taxi, night had settled across the sky in velvet shadows. Jillian sat by the window, arms folded, forehead resting against the cool glass. Below, the city sprawled like a sea of stars.
And the memories came.
The echo of her mother's laughter in the garden. The scent of old books in the library no one visited anymore. Her father's unreadable gaze. The first time she met Celeste—awkward silence wrapped in luxury and resentment.
She had left that world behind years ago, determined to carve her name without needing it.
But now, she was flying back into it.
She stepped out of the airport into a cool breeze, suitcase in tow. A black car waited by the curb, sent by her father no doubt. The driver didn't speak—just gave her a nod and opened the door.
As they pulled away, Jillian looked out at the familiar streets. Her heart was calm on the surface, but every turn of the wheel drew her closer to something she hadn't wanted to face.
The mansion appeared like a memory frozen in time—grand, pristine, and cold. The gates opened with mechanical grace.
She was home.
But it didn't feel like it.
Upon arrival, the grand foyer echoed with the sound of her heels as Jillian stepped inside, the suitcase wheels humming softly behind her. A towering chandelier sparkled above, casting light over the polished floors and the pristine staircase she hadn't climbed in years.
The butler offered a polite nod and wordlessly gestured for her to follow him.
She was led into the drawing room—spacious, elegant, suffocating. They were already there.
Her father, Harlond Smith, stood by the window, back straight, hands folded behind him like a statue carved from tradition. Celeste sat on the ivory couch, legs crossed, face unreadable.
And beside her, dressed in soft silk and elegance as always, was Camilla Robbinson—Celeste's mother and the woman who had once quietly replaced Jillian's own.
Jillian didn't greet them immediately. She took a breath. Then another. Finally, "You called for me," she said, her voice neutral.
Harlond turned slightly, nodding once. "You came. Good."
Camilla's eyes swept over Jillian with that subtle judgment she never voiced but always delivered. "You look tired," she said smoothly. "All that work must be exhausting."
Jillian's lips curved faintly. "It keeps me sane."
Celeste shifted, but said nothing.
A pause stretched in the air.
Harlond cleared his throat. "The marriage arrangement has been arranged for this weekend. We would appreciate your presence during the final preparations."
Jillian looked toward Celeste, who finally met her eyes—cool, steady, unreadable.
"I wasn't forced," Celeste said, breaking the silence. "I want this."
Jillian gave a slow nod, eyes still on her. "I came to see that for myself."
Another heavy pause. Camilla smoothed her dress and stood. "Well, we've all had a long day. Perhaps you'd like to rest."
Jillian smiled, cold and sharp. "I'd rather stay a bit. It's been a while since I've seen the family."
The room tensed again, silent beneath the weight of unspoken things.
She had come home. But she wasn't here to play nice.
Jillian then made her way upstairs to the room she had once shared with her mother. The hallway stretched long before her, its old portraits lining the walls, watching her with unmoving eyes.
The house felt like it had been frozen in time, preserved by wealth and cold distance. The scent of old wood and faded perfume lingered in the air as if her mother's presence could still be felt here, even in her absence.
Her fingers brushed against the old oak dresser where her mother's perfume bottle once sat—a relic of her childhood, a reminder of better days.
Her mother's soft laugh, Jillian thought. Her voice in the garden. The way she would hum quietly while sitting by the fire.
Those days had felt safe, even happy. Until the world had fallen apart, until her mother's illness, and then her death. She hadn't known how to handle it—hadn't known how to live in a house without her mother's light.
Jillian closed her eyes, a sharp pang in her chest. The bitterness of the past crept in, and she turned away, willing herself to move forward. There's nothing left to hold onto here. Not anymore.