The tour was a slow, exquisite torture. Every step through the cavernous penthouse felt like walking a tightrope over a chasm of my own making. Chloe's arm was linked with mine, her presence a warm, trusting weight that made the cold marble underfoot feel even more treacherous.
"And this is… the main living area," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space. I gestured vaguely, as if the wall of windows and the city laid out at our feet were unremarkable features of any ordinary home.
"It's insane," Chloe whispered, her gaze hungry, taking in every detail. "It's like living inside a piece of art. A very, very severe piece of art." She squeezed my arm. "But you're softening it. I can see it already. Those fabrics?" She nodded toward the emerald velvet I'd draped over the sofa. "Gorgeous. That's so you."
Her approval was a knife twist. She was seeing my attempts at survival as signs of domestic bliss.
We moved down the hallway, past the closed, forbidden doors. "That's his office," I said, my tone carefully neutral.
"Ooh, the inner sanctum. What's in there? A giant screen with scrolling numbers? A single, dramatic chair?"
"I don't know," I said, and this, at least, was the truth. "He likes his privacy when he's working."
She nodded, accepting this. "And this one?" She pointed to the door next to it, the one that hid the secret gallery.
My heart stuttered. "Just storage," I said, the lie coming out too quickly. I could feel the weight of the paintings behind that door, the ghost of Alexander's hidden passion pressing against the other side. I quickly guided her away. "Our rooms are down here."
I showed her the guest suite first, a room as impeccably decorated and soulless as a five-star hotel. Then, with a sense of impending doom, I pushed open the door to my own room.
It was the one space that felt remotely like mine, but even here, the lie was visible. My two suitcases were unpacked, but my clothes were lost in the cavernous, professionally organized closet. A few of my sketchbooks were stacked on the nightstand, a small, brave outpost of my identity in the sea of designer neutrality.
Chloe walked in, her eyes scanning the room. She went to the closet, pushing aside the row of Alexander's impeccably hung suits and shirts to see my small collection of dresses and jeans hanging like timid interlopers.
"You guys don't share a closet?" she asked, her voice casual, but I heard the subtle probe.
"He's an early riser. I'm a night owl. We didn't want to disturb each other," I fabricated, the excuse sounding flimsy even to me. I pointed to the door connecting to the master bedroom. "His room is through there."
She didn't comment, but I saw the flicker in her eyes. The separate bedrooms, the distinct territories. it didn't fit the narrative of a passionate, whirlwind romance. I had to steer the conversation back to safer, fictional ground.
I walked to the nightstand and picked up the only photo I had of the two of us. a picture from our civil ceremony, taken by Julian. In it, Alexander stood stiffly beside me, his hand on the small of my back, his expression unreadable. I was looking up at him, my face a carefully constructed mask of serene happiness.
"He was so nervous that day," I said, infusing my voice with a fond, wistful tone. I traced the glass over his image. "He's not usually a man who's lost for words, but when the justice of the peace asked him to say his vows, he just looked at me and… stumbled. It was the most endearing thing I've ever seen."
The story was a complete fabrication. He had recited his vows with the cold, clear precision of a man reading a stock report. But as I spoke, I saw Chloe's skepticism melt away, replaced by a soft, dreamy sigh.
"Oh, El," she breathed. "That's so sweet. I just can't get over it. You and Alexander Vance." She shook her head, laughing. "My sister, the runaway romance novel."
We ended up back in the living area, sitting on the floor amidst my fabric swatches and sketches, eating the pastries from the greasy bag. It was a bizarre tableau two sisters picnicking in the center of a billion-dollar, sterile showpiece. For a moment, with the sugar on my tongue and Chloe's laughter filling the silence, it almost felt normal. The lie felt almost comfortable, a warm blanket I could wrap around myself.
But then she looked at me, her expression growing serious. "I have to ask… and you can tell me to butt out… but is it weird? The money? The… everything?" She gestured around us. "It's just so much, so fast. I worry about you being in over your head."
This was my chance. This was the moment I could have cracked open the door, could have let a sliver of truth escape. I could have said, Yes, it's terrifying. Yes, I'm drowning. Yes, I sold my soul for a million dollars and the safety of our family.
I looked into her warm, concerned eyes, the eyes that had seen me through every childhood scrape and adolescent heartbreak. I saw the faith she had in this beautiful lie I'd built for her.
So, I fortified the walls instead.
I reached out and took her hand. "It's a lot," I admitted, which was true. "And yes, it's overwhelming sometimes. But Chloe, when you find your person, the rest is just… background noise. The money, this place… it doesn't matter. What matters is that I feel seen by him. In a way I've never felt before."
It was the most devastating lie of all, because it was woven with threads of a desperate, secret truth. I was seen by Alexander. he had seen my desperation and found it an efficient solution to his problem. And in a way I had never expected, I was now beginning to see him. the hidden artist, the man of storms and it was the most terrifying and compelling thing I had ever encountered.
Chloe's eyes glistened. "Okay," she whispered, squeezing my hand. "Okay. That's all I needed to hear."
When she left, the silence rushed back in, but it was different now. It was no longer just empty. It was accusing. The ghost of her belief hung in the air, a perfume of happiness that I had concocted from whole cloth. I stood in the center of the room she believed was a love nest, surrounded by the beautiful, fragile web of my lies, each one feeling more permanent and more isolating than the last. I had reassured my sister. I had protected the illusion.
And in doing so, I had never felt more alone.