# CHAPTER 3

**POV: Isla**

The Ashford family estate loomed before me like a museum-all stone facade and manicured hedges, perfectly symmetrical and utterly cold. I sat in my decade-old Honda in the circular driveway, watching the lights glow in the dining room windows. Vivienne's sleek Audi was already parked near the entrance. Celeste's vintage motorcycle leaned on its kickstand by the garage.

Seven o'clock sharp, Vivienne had said. I was five minutes early, which meant I would be the first one seated. Always eager, always trying, never quite measuring up.

I grabbed the bottle of wine I'd brought-nothing expensive, not like what my sisters would arrive with, but the clerk had promised it was good-and made my way to the front door.

"Isla." My mother opened the door before I could knock, already dressed for dinner in a cream silk blouse and pearls. Margaret Ashford didn't do casual. "You're early."

"I can wait in the-"

"Don't be ridiculous. Come in." She turned and walked away before I could finish my sentence, heels clicking on the marble foyer.

I followed her through the house I'd grown up in, past family photos where I always stood slightly behind my sisters, past the piano no one played anymore, into the formal dining room where the table was already set with Mother's best china.

"I brought wine," I offered, holding up the bottle.

She glanced at it without really looking. "That's nice, dear. Set it on the sideboard."

I did as instructed, watching as she adjusted a fork that was already perfectly aligned. Everything in the Ashford house had its place. Including me-which was nowhere specific, just somewhere out of the way.

"How was work this week?" I tried.

"Busy. The hospital charity board is demanding more oversight. Richard!" She raised her voice toward the study. "They're here!"

"I meant my work. At the hospital. We had this little girl who-"

"Vivienne, darling!" Mother's face transformed as my eldest sister swept into the room, all confidence and designer labels. "You look stunning. Is that new?"

"Theory's fall collection." Vivienne set down a bottle of wine that probably cost more than my rent. "The Bordeaux you like, Mother."

"You're always so thoughtful."

I stood by the sideboard, holding my cheaper bottle, invisible as always.

My father entered next, Richard Ashford in his custom three-piece suit even at home. He kissed Mother's cheek, nodded at Vivienne, and walked past me to the bar cart without acknowledgment.

"Where's Celeste?" he asked.

"Late, as usual," Vivienne said, settling into her chair with practiced grace. "She texted that she's on her way."

Mother sighed. "That girl. Isla, sit down. We won't wait for your sister."

I took my usual seat-the one closest to the kitchen, easiest to get up from when something needed fetching-and folded my hands in my lap.

"So, Vivienne," Father said, pouring himself scotch. "Tell me about the Meridian case. I heard you're close to a settlement."

Vivienne launched into a detailed explanation of corporate merger complications while Mother listened with rapt attention. I watched them, the way they leaned forward, engaged. The way Father asked follow-up questions and Mother made impressed sounds.

This was how dinner always went. Vivienne discussing her important cases, Celeste eventually arriving with some dramatic story about the art world, and me...

"The nursing staff threw a birthday party for one of our long-term patients this week," I said when Vivienne paused for breath. "Seven years old, been fighting leukemia for-"

"That reminds me," Mother interrupted, not even looking at me. "Vivienne, didn't you say your firm handles medical malpractice? The Hendersons were asking about representation."

"We do, actually. I can make an introduction."

"How's your hospital thing going, Isla?" Father asked absently, still focused on his scotch.

"It's good. Like I was saying, this little girl-"

"Sorry I'm late!" Celeste burst through the door in paint-stained jeans and a leather jacket, her auburn hair wild. "You would not believe the day I've had."

"Celeste." Mother's voice went tight. "You couldn't dress appropriately?"

"I came straight from the gallery. We're installing a new exhibition-very controversial piece about corporate greed and environmental destruction. The artist is brilliant but completely unhinged." She threw herself into the chair across from me. "Hi, Isla."

"Hi," I managed.

"The art world is so exhausting," Celeste continued, accepting the wine Father poured for her. "Everyone has an opinion, everyone's offended by something. Last week someone called my curatorial choices 'deliberately provocative.' Like that's a bad thing."

"Well, you do try to shock people," Vivienne said dryly.

"That's the point of art. It should make you uncomfortable."

They launched into a debate about artistic merit versus commercial viability. Mother chimed in about the pieces she'd seen at a recent museum gala. Father mentioned a sculpture he'd considered buying.

I cut my salmon into smaller and smaller pieces, chewing slowly, trying to take up as little space as possible.

"Isla, you're being quiet," Celeste said suddenly.

Everyone looked at me. I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.

"I'm just listening."

"You always just listen. Don't you have opinions?"

"I-"

"Celeste, don't badger your sister," Mother said. "Some people are naturally more reserved."

Reserved. That was the polite word for invisible.

"I was trying to mention earlier," I said, voice smaller than I wanted, "we had this patient who-"

"Oh, Vivienne, I almost forgot," Mother cut in, pulling out her phone. "I need to show you the invitation to the Wellington charity gala. You should definitely attend. Excellent networking opportunity."

"Send it to me," Vivienne said.

I set down my fork. The salmon tasted like cardboard anyway.

The conversation flowed around me like water around a stone. Vivienne's latest courtroom victory. Celeste's upcoming gallery opening. Father's golf handicap. Mother's committee work. My sisters were brilliant stars in their respective orbits, commanding every room they entered.

And I was...

"At least two of you are making something of yourselves," Mother said, refilling her wine glass. "Isla, dear, how's your... hospital thing?"

My hospital thing. Three years of nursing school. Four years working pediatric oncology. Countless nights holding scared children's hands through painful procedures. All of it reduced to "your hospital thing."

"It's good," I said.

"That's nice, dear."

Father didn't even glance up from his phone.

Celeste and Vivienne had already moved on to discussing some mutual acquaintance's scandalous divorce.

I excused myself to use the bathroom-no one noticed-and stood in the powder room staring at my reflection. Same brown hair, same hazel eyes, same forgettable features. Nothing like Vivienne's sharp elegance or Celeste's wild beauty.

My phone buzzed. An email notification.

D.C. had written back.

*Dear E.A.,*

*Your family doesn't deserve you, by the way. I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating.*

I read it three times, feeling something warm unfurl in my chest.

When I returned to the dining room, they were discussing vacation homes. Vivienne was considering Tuscany. Celeste wanted something in Bali. No one asked if I had gone anywhere.

I watched my sisters command attention, watched my parents hang on their every word, and felt the familiar weight of invisibility settle over my shoulders.

A ghost at my own family dinner.

That's all I'd ever be to them.

**POV: Vivienne**

I swirled the Bordeaux in my glass, watching the candlelight catch in the deep red liquid. Mother was telling some story about the Wellington charity committee, and I made the appropriate listening sounds while my mind wandered to the Meridian settlement I would closed yesterday.

Forty-two million dollars. Three months of brutal negotiation. The client had sent a fruit basket to my office that was absurdly large-like something you'd see in a hotel lobby.

I should have felt triumphant. Instead, I felt nothing.

"Don't you think so, Vivienne?" Mother's voice pulled me back.

"Absolutely," I said smoothly, having no idea what she'd asked.

She smiled, satisfied, and continued talking. I'd perfected the art of appearing engaged while being completely absent. Just another skill in my repertoire of being exactly what everyone expected.

Vivienne Grace Ashford. Senior partner at thirty-one. The daughter who'd done everything right. Law school at Columbia, summer associate position at the city's most prestigious firm, partnership track completed two years early.

Perfect on paper.

Hollow in practice.

"The Hendersons specifically asked for you," Father said, leaning forward with that look he got when discussing business. "Medical malpractice isn't your specialty, but they trust the Ashford name."

"I'll make time for a consultation," I said, mentally calculating which associate I could pass it to. My calendar was already impossible.

Across the table, Isla was cutting her salmon into microscopic pieces, saying nothing. She'd tried to speak earlier-something about a patient-but honestly, hospital small talk wasn't exactly riveting dinner conversation. Besides, she'd barely gotten two words out before trailing off like she always did.

Celeste, at least, brought energy to these dinners. Drama and chaos, yes, but energy.

Isla just... existed quietly. Like furniture.

"Vivienne, darling, you look tired," Mother observed. "Are you sleeping enough?"

"I'm fine. Just busy."

"All work and no play," she said with a knowing smile. "You should come to the museum gala next month. Lots of eligible men."

I forced a smile. "I'll check my calendar."

Ten years ago, I would have rolled my eyes at Mother's matchmaking attempts. Now I just deflected and moved on. It was easier than explaining that I didn't want eligible men. I wanted...

I shut down that thought before it could fully form.

"Speaking of work," Father said, "how's the Morrison account progressing?"

I launched into an explanation of discovery disputes and depositions, watching my parents' faces light up with approval. This was what they wanted. This was what I was good at.

Achievement. Success. The Ashford name elevated through my accomplishments.

Never mind that I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt genuinely happy. Never mind that I came home to an empty apartment every night and ate takeout over my laptop, reviewing briefs until my eyes burned.

Never mind that sometimes, late at night when the city was quiet, I let myself remember what it felt like to want something more than a winning case.

My phone buzzed in my purse. I ignored it-Mother hated phones at the dinner table-but it buzzed again. And again.

"Excuse me," I said, pulling it out. "I'm expecting news on a filing deadline."

Three missed calls from my assistant. Two texts. One voicemail.

I stood, moving toward the hallway. "I need to take this."

In the quiet of the foyer, I dialed my voicemail.

"Ms. Ashford, it's Patricia. I know it's Saturday evening, but we just received a request for a Monday morning meeting. New client, very high profile. They specifically asked for you. Cross Industries-they need counsel for an unusual inheritance matter. I've tentatively scheduled you for nine a.m., but call me if you need to adjust."

Cross Industries.

The phone nearly slipped from my hand.

I knew that name. Everyone in Seattle knew that name. Dominic Cross, the billionaire who'd built an empire before thirty-five. Real estate, tech investments, venture capital. The man was untouchable.

And he needed counsel.

This was the kind of client that made careers.

I steadied my breathing and texted Patricia back: *9 a.m. Monday confirmed. Send all available background.*

"Everything all right?" Celeste had followed me into the foyer, wine glass in hand.

"Fine. New client meeting Monday."

"On a Saturday night. God, Viv, do you ever turn it off?"

"Some of us have careers that require-" I stopped myself. We'd had this argument too many times. Celeste chose art and instability. I chose law and security. Neither of us would convince the other.

"Never mind," she said. "I was just checking on you. You seemed distant at dinner."

"I'm always distant at these dinners."

"True." She took a sip of wine. "You ever think about why we keep coming back? They barely notice Isla exists, they think I'm a perpetual disappointment, and you're only valuable when you're achieving something."

"That's not-"

"It is. You know it is." She shrugged. "But we keep showing up. Dutiful daughters playing our assigned roles."

I wanted to argue, but she wasn't wrong. We were all performing. Vivienne the Perfect. Celeste the Rebel. Isla the... whatever Isla was. Quiet? Forgettable?

God, that sounded cruel even thinking it.

"I should get back," I said.

"Sure. Wouldn't want them to think you're slacking."

I returned to find dessert being served-Mother's housekeeper had made crème brûlée-and slipped back into my seat. The conversation had moved on to vacation properties. Celeste was advocating for Bali with her usual dramatic flair.

I cracked the caramelized sugar with my spoon and let my mind drift to Monday's meeting.

Cross Industries. Dominic Cross.

The name pulled at something in my memory, something old and buried. But that was impossible. I'd never met the man. He traveled in circles far above where I'd started.

Ten years ago, I'd been a scholarship student eating ramen and studying until three a.m. I'd been dating a boy with more ambition than money, dreaming of building something together.

Dominic Santos, he'd called himself. Dominican heritage, immigrant parents, a chip on his shoulder the size of Manhattan and a smile that made me forget every responsible plan I would ever made.

I'd loved him. God help me, I'd loved him.

And then I'd gotten the offer. Senior associate position in New York. My dream job. Everything I'd worked for.

He'd asked me to stay. To build something with him instead. To choose us over achievement.

I'd chosen the job.

I took a bite of crème brûlée and tasted nothing but ash and regret.

That was a lifetime ago. Dominic Santos had probably moved on, probably married someone more adventurous than me, probably forgot my name years ago.

And I'd become exactly what I'd always planned to become: successful, respected, utterly alone.

My phone lit up with Patricia's email. Background on Cross Industries. History of the company. Bio of Dominic Cross.

I would read it later, in my empty apartment, over wine and takeout.

For now, I smiled at my parents' approval, accepted their praise for the Meridian settlement, and played my part.

The perfect daughter.

My phone stayed face-down on the table, but I could feel its weight. Cross Industries. Monday morning.

A chance at the kind of client that could define my entire career.

**POV: Celeste**

I knew I was late. I also knew showing up in paint-stained jeans and a leather jacket would make Mother's eye twitch. Both facts brought me a petty satisfaction as I kicked my motorcycle into gear and roared toward the estate.

Traffic was lighter than expected, which meant I'd only be fifteen minutes late instead of thirty. Still enough to make an entrance, not enough to seem like I'd forgotten entirely.

The Ashford estate appeared through the trees, all pretentious stone and perfectly trimmed hedges. I pulled up next to Vivienne's Audi-of course she was already here, probably early-and killed the engine.

Through the dining room windows, I could see them all seated. Mother in her pearls. Father with his scotch. Vivienne looking immaculate as always. Isla practically invisible at the end of the table.

I checked my reflection in my phone screen. Eyeliner slightly smudged, hair wild from the helmet, paint-cadmium red-under my fingernails. Perfect.

The front door was unlocked. It always was on family dinner nights, like they were daring me to actually show up.

"Sorry I'm late!" I announced, pushing into the dining room with maximum dramatic flair.

Mother's lips pressed into that thin line I knew so well. "Celeste. You couldn't dress appropriately?"

"I came straight from the gallery." I dropped into my chair and immediately reached for the wine Father was pouring. "We're installing a new exhibition-very controversial piece about corporate greed and environmental destruction. The artist is brilliant but completely unhinged."

"How nice," Mother said in that tone that meant the opposite.

"The art world is so exhausting," I continued, taking a long drink. God, this was good wine. Trust Vivienne to bring the expensive stuff. "Everyone has an opinion, everyone's offended by something. Last week someone called my curatorial choices 'deliberately provocative.' Like that's a bad thing."

"Well, you do try to shock people," Vivienne said dryly, cutting her salmon with surgical precision.

"That's the point of art. It should make you uncomfortable."

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "Not all art needs to be confrontational."

"Says the woman who probably has a Monet print in her office."

"Renoir, actually."

Of course it was. Vivienne would choose something safe and expensive and utterly predictable.

We fell into our familiar argument-me defending art as provocation, her advocating for aesthetic beauty, Mother trying to redirect toward something more appropriate. It was the same conversation we'd had a hundred times, and I knew my lines by heart.

The thing was, I didn't actually disagree with Vivienne. Not entirely. But agreeing would mean giving up my role, and what would I be if I wasn't the difficult middle daughter?

"Isla, you're being quiet," I said, suddenly noticing our youngest sister pushing food around her plate.

She looked up like a startled deer. "I'm just listening."

"You always just listen. Don't you have opinions?"

"I-"

"Celeste, don't badger your sister," Mother interrupted. "Some people are naturally more reserved."

I opened my mouth to argue-Isla wasn't reserved, she was erased-but Father cut in about some sculpture at his club and the moment passed.

Isla went back to her salmon. I went back to my wine.

The truth was, these dinners exhausted me. Playing the rebel took energy. Making sure every comment was just shocking enough to get attention but not enough to get disowned. Walking that tightrope between disappointing them and desperately wanting them to notice me.

"Your gallery," Father said, not quite looking at me. "Is it at least profitable?"

There it was. The question underneath all their polite inquiries. Are you wasting your life? Are you embarrassing us?

"We're doing well," I said, which was technically true if you ignored the months I'd had to borrow money from my trust fund to make rent.

"Well," he repeated, unconvinced.

"Actually," I said, the lie forming before I'd fully thought it through, "I'm curating an exclusive gala next month. Very high-profile donors. Billionaires, tech moguls, old money. The kind of people who buy Basquiat at auction."

Mother's attention sharpened. "Really?"

"Invitation only. We're showcasing emerging artists alongside established names. It's going to be the art event of the season."

This was maybe thirty percent true. I had been planning something for next month. I had a few wealthy clients. But "art event of the season" was generous, and "billionaires" was optimistic.

But Mother was looking at me with something other than disappointment, and I couldn't stop now.

"We're expecting Dominic Cross," I added, pulling a name I'd seen in the society pages. "His foundation does a lot with the arts. He's been very interested in our work."

Complete fabrication. I'd never spoken to Dominic Cross. I'd sent his foundation a generic sponsorship request three months ago and gotten a form letter rejection.

"Dominic Cross?" Vivienne's voice was strange. "You're working with him?"

"Well, his people. You know how it is with billionaires-layers of assistants and managers."

"That's quite impressive, Celeste," Father said, and I hated how much those words meant to me. How I'd just lied to get them.

"When is this gala?" Mother asked.

"Mid-October. I'll send you details." I'd have to actually make this happen now. Somehow. "It should be quite the spectacle."

"Do try to keep it tasteful," Mother said, but she was smiling. Actually smiling at me.

I wanted to throw my wine glass at the wall. I wanted to scream that I shouldn't have to lie about billionaire benefactors to earn a smile. I wanted to ask why Vivienne got approval for being exactly what they wanted while I had to perform rebellion just to be remembered.

Instead, I took another drink and changed the subject to some mutual acquaintance's scandalous divorce.

The rest of dinner blurred. Isla excused herself at some point-probably hiding in the bathroom like she always did when things got too much. Vivienne's phone kept buzzing. Mother went on about some charity committee.

I played my part. Provocative comments. Dramatic gestures. The wild child who refused to be tamed.

By the time I left, my face hurt from smiling.

I sat on my motorcycle in the driveway, helmet in my lap, staring up at the estate. Lights glowed warmly in every window, but the house had never felt less like home.

My phone buzzed. A text from my gallery assistant: *Installation is a disaster. Sculptor won't compromise on placement. Call me.*

And another from my landlord: *Rent is late again.*

I deleted both without responding.

Instead, I opened my browser and searched "Dominic Cross philanthropic interests art."

If I'd just promised my parents a gala with billionaire attendance, I'd better figure out how to deliver one.