The cab pulled away from the curb. I stared out the window at the passing lights of London, eager for the moment I could drink away any thoughts of Eduardo, my father, and a certain publicist who occupied my waking moments far more than she should.

CHAPTER 3

Sloane

The “red man” signal warning pedestrians not to cross the road stared me down. I ignored it and power walked across the street, tuning out the blaring car horn of an oncoming truck.

I was already late, and if I didn’t take off my shoes soon, my bloodied feet would kill me faster than getting hit by a car. Four-inch stilettos looked great, but they weren’t made for ten blocks of city walking.

Unfortunately, London traffic was a shitshow, so I’d ditched my cab after being stuck on the same street for twenty minutes.

By the time I reached the hotel, my dress was stuck to my body with sweat and I could barely feel my feet, but I made it to the penthouse without incident (unless I counted the other guests’ horrified stares).

Please don’t be asleep.

I knocked on the door, my heart in my throat.

Please don’t be asleep. Please don’t be—

My breath exhaled in a puff of relief when a familiar round face answered the door.

“There you are.” Rhea ushered me in, her eyes darting toward the entrance like George and Caroline would walk in at any minute. She put her job in jeopardy every time she texted me, but we both took our risks for the same reason. “I was afraid you couldn’t make it.”

“I got held up by traffic, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I took off my shoes and sighed. Much better.

With Rhea’s help, I quickly cleaned my bloody feet before walking into the suite’s living room. My heart clenched when I saw her sitting on the floor, watching a kids’ cartoon about ballerinas. She always gravitated toward shows about dance or sports.

Her back faced me, but she must have had a sixth sense because she turned the instant I entered the room.

“Sloane!” Penny scrambled to her feet and ran toward me. “You came.”

“Of course I came.” I bent down to hug her. God, she’d grown so much since the last time I saw her.

She buried her face in my stomach, and if I could cry, I would’ve at how tightly she clung to me. Besides Rhea, I was probably her first hug of the day.

Her nanny left the room, giving us time alone, and I eventually, reluctantly released her so I could fish her gift out of my bag. “Happy birthday, Pen. This is for you.”

My half sister’s eyes lit up. She took the gift and unwrapped it, taking great care not to rip the silver-striped paper.

She was Penelope to her parents and Penny to everyone else, but she’d always be Pen to me. The sister I never knew I needed, the only one who’d cried when I left, and the only Kensington I still considered family after my grandmother died.

She finished unwrapping the gift, and her delighted gasp brought a smile to my face.

“The new American Sports doll!” She clutched the precious item to her chest. “How did you get this?”

“I know people. Your older sister is pretty cool, you know,” I teased.

The limited-edition doll was one of the most sought-after toys in the world. There were only two dozen in existence, but my friend Vivian’s husband pulled some strings and got me one in time for Pen’s birthday.

She couldn’t play with it openly, but one of the upsides to her parents’ neglect was that they wouldn’t notice or question how she’d gotten the toy.

“So, how does nine feel?” I sat next to her on the floor. “You’re almost in the double digits.”

“Gross. Soon I’ll be old like you—ah!” Pen erupted into hysterical giggles when I tickled her side. “Stop! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She gasped. “You’re not that old.”

“That’s what you get for insulting me,” I quipped, but I stopped tickling her, mindful not to overexert her. I always trod a line between treating her like a normal kid while knowing she wasn’t, at least not in terms of physical stamina.

Two years ago, Pen was diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome, or CFS, after an unusually lengthy bout of mono. Characterized by extreme fatigue, sleep issues, and joint and muscle pain, among other things, CFS had no cure or approved treatment. It was difficult to determine the cause, though her doctors suspected it was triggered by a change in the way her immune system responded to illness, and the best we could do was manage the symptoms.

Despite having no FDA-approved treatments, CFS had spawned a thousand and one snake oil salesmen who promised a “cure” via special vitamins, antiretrovirals, and other “miracle” medications. Pen’s parents had flushed a ton of money down the drain trying to find something that worked. Nothing ever did, so eventually, they gave up and simply shoved her at home where they didn’t have to think about her.

Luckily, Pen had mild CFS, so she could carry out everyday activities better than those with more severe cases, but she couldn’t play sports like she wanted or attend school like her peers. On bad days, it was difficult for her to walk. She was currently homeschooled, and Rhea stayed with her pretty much twenty-four seven in case she crashed.

“I made something for you.” Pen sounded out of breath, but my concern ebbed when she walked to the coffee table and returned without missing a beat. A knot formed in my throat. It was a good day; she deserved a good day on her birthday. “It’s a friendship bracelet.” She placed the jewelry carefully in my palm. “I have a matching one. See?”

The beaded bracelet simply had five hearts. Hers were pink; mine were blue.

The pressure from the knot wound its way up behind my nose and ears. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Pen.” I slid the bracelet onto my wrist. “But you should receive gifts on your birthday, not give them.” Especially not when making the jewelry probably cost her hours’ worth of energy.

“I don’t get to see you on your birthday,” she said in a small voice.

I hated that she was right. We only saw each other a few times a year when Rhea could sneak me in. My family was spiteful enough that they’d lock her in a vault before they’d willingly let me visit, and I was proud enough never to apologize for something I wasn’t at fault for. I’d thought about it, but I couldn’t do it. Not even for Pen.

“Well, we’re together now,” I said, pushing thoughts of the past aside. “What do you want to do? We can watch a movie, play with your new doll…”

“I want to watch the Blackcastle versus Holchester game.” Pen looked at me with big doe eyes. “Please?”

I wasn’t a sports person, but she loved soccer, so I acquiesced to a taped replay. The game made headlines earlier this year because it’d been the first time Asher Donovan, the darling of the Premier League and the newest transfer to Blackcastle, had played against his old team.

Besides Xavier, Asher was my most difficult client, but he was also Pen’s hero. She’d nearly ruptured my eardrum when he signed with my firm a few years ago.

Speaking of Xavier…

While Pen curled against my side and watched the match with rapt attention, I quickly checked my phone for any new gossip items. I ignored a text from an old hookup asking to meet up again—the man could not take a hint—and scanned the news.

I had alerts for all my clients, but there were only two names that made my blood pressure rise whenever they popped up onscreen. One of their initials: XC.

Nothing. Good. He was behaving. I swore Rhea had an easier time taking care of Pen than I did keeping Xavier in line.

Pen and I didn’t talk throughout the game, but we didn’t need to. Even though we didn’t see each other often, the best part of our reunions was being comfortable together. Sometimes that meant talking nonstop; other times it meant watching a movie in content silence.

She shifted half an hour in, and when I looked down, my pulse spiked with worry. Pale face, glazed eyes—she was about to crash. “I’m okay,” she said when I called for Rhea. The older woman rushed into the room, her face wreathed with concern. “Stay.” Pen clutched my sleeve with her little hand. “I never get to see you.”

Despite her words, her voice faded into a whisper toward the end. The night had taken its toll, and it was a testament to her fatigue that she didn’t argue again when I kissed her goodbye on the forehead.

“We’ll see each other again soon,” I said fiercely. “I promise.”