Chapter 2: The Sister's Verdict
The pink streak in the sink was a relic from Violet’s ‘Electric Hibiscus’ phase, a stubborn scar on the porcelain. Sloane stared at it, her forehead pressed against the cool edge, the world reduced to the rhythmic churn in her gut and the faint, sickly-sweet smell of lavender from the shower curtain. Another wave hit, dry and violent, wringing her empty stomach into a tighter knot.
The bathroom door swung open without a knock. Violet, in ratty unicorn pajamas, her pink bob mashed flat on one side from sleep, took in the scene with a single glance.She didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask if she was okay. She just walked over, her bare feet slapping on the tile, and gathered Sloane’s ink-black hair in one fist, pulling it back from her damp face. Her other hand landed between Sloane’s shoulder blades, rubbing slow, counter-clockwise circles.
“Breathe through your nose,” Violet murmured, her voice still scratchy from sleep.“In for four, out for six. Like we practiced.”
They hadn’t practiced.Not for this.But the command was a lifeline. Sloane focused on the pressure of Violet’s hand, the solid presence of her knee against her hip. She gulped air, her nostrils flaring. The nausea receded, not gone, but banked to a low, manageable simmer.
After a long silence, Violet slid down to sit on the floor across from her, their knees almost touching. The pastel chaos of the room felt absurd, a cartoon backdrop to Sloane’s private implosion. Violet picked at a chipped toenail, painted a glittery green that was now half gone.
“It’s the motorcycle guy, isn’t it?” Violet said finally, her eyes not leaving her toes.“The one with the hands. The one you swore you’d ghost after one spectacularly ill-advised night of reinventing the wheel.”
A choked sound escaped Sloane’s throat, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.She nodded, her cheek still against the sink.
“You told him yet?”
Sloane thought of the shop, the grease on his hands, the flat, unshakable certainty in his grey eyes.Good.Now you’re not going anywhere.She nodded again.
“And?”
“And he was… calm.”
Violet’s head snapped up.“Calm? What the fuck does ‘calm’ mean? Like, ‘oh okay, cool, let’s discuss childcare options’ calm? Or like, ‘I’m a serial killer and this fits neatly into my plans’ calm?”
The laugh that came out this time was real, sharp and painful. “The second one. Definitely the second one.” She pushed herself up, her back protesting, and slumped against the bathtub.The cold of the ceramic seeped through her thin t-shirt. “He just looked at me.Said it was good. Like he’d won a prize.”
“Creepy,” Violet stated, her nose wrinkling. “But not, like, run-for-the-hills-into-witness-protection creepy?”
“I don’t know.” Sloane wrapped her arms around her knees.“He didn’t ask what I wanted to do. He just… assumed. Took ownership.”
“Yeah, that’s his whole vibe, from what you’ve not told me.” Violet leaned forward, her eyes laser-focused. “But what do you want, Sloane? And don’t give me that ‘I don’t do babies’ bullshit.You’re doing one. It’s currently making you puke up phantom toast in my bathroom. So the question is: what now?”
The knot in Sloane’s chest tightened again. She looked at the pink streak, the glittery gold frame of the mirror, anywhere but her sister’s face.“I don’t know. I keep waiting to feel something.Panic, sure, I’ve got that.Terror, check. But there’s this… other thing.A quiet part. When he said that, when he claimed it—claimed me—a part of me just went still. Like a dog that finally stopped straining against the leash.”
Violet didn’t flinch.She just listened, her head tilted.
“It feels like failure,” Sloane whispered, the admission scraping her throat raw. “My whole life, I’ve built everything to be independent.To need nothing and no one. And with one stupid night, one stupid sentence from him, it’s like… like the foundation’s just sand. And that quiet part likes the feel of the sand giving way.”
For a long moment, Violet just studied her. Then she reached out and grabbed Sloane’s hand, squeezing so hard the bones grated.“Okay.Then we have a plan.”
Sloane blinked. “We do?”
“Step one,” Violet said, her voice firm. “You accept that Creepy Calm Motorcycle Jesus is in the picture.For now. Step two: I threaten to remove his balls with a rusty spoon if he so much as looks at you wrong.Not a metaphor. I have actual spoons.They’re rusty.”
A watery smile touched Sloane’s lips.
“Step three,” Violet continued, her grip softening.“You listen to that quiet part. You let yourself want this, whatever ‘this’ even is. Even if it scares the absolute shit out of you.You don’t have to know what you’re doing. You just have to not run for, like, five minutes at a time.”
Sloane let her head fall forward until it rested on her knees.The knot in her chest loosened, just a fraction. Not gone, but breathable. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I know,” Violet said, patting her leg before pushing herself up.“Now come on. You need electrolytes and I need bacon. My treat.”
They ended up in a vinyl-upholstered booth at a diner three blocks away, the air thick with the smell of fried potatoes and coffee. Sloane nursed a ginger ale, watching Violet demolish a stack of pancakes with surgical precision.
“So,” Violet said around a mouthful, pointing her fork.“Details.You’ve been cagey. How’d you even meet him?”
Sloane traced a bead of condensation down her glass. “A gallery opening. For Marcus Thorne’s steel wool series.”
“Pretentious.”
“Extremely.” Sloane had been there to schmooze, to network, to feel like something other than a woman peddling expensive pictures of abandoned places. Kieran had been there with Marcus, who was a client. He’d stood apart, a monolith in a sea of black turtlenecks, his gaze passing over the crowd like it was an uninteresting engine component. It had landed on her, stuck. He’d walked over, didn’t introduce himself, just said, “Your work.The one of the fractured culvert. The light’s wrong.”
She’d been so insulted, so electrified, she’d argued with him for twenty minutes. He’d listened, those pale eyes never leaving hers, and then said, “You’re right.It’s not wrong. It’s a lie you told to make the truth more bearable.” He’d seen it. The one photograph where she’d manipulated the shadows just a fraction, to hide a patch of graffiti that felt too vulnerable. No one else had noticed.“He saw through you,” Violet summarized, stabbing a piece of pancake. “That’s your kryptonite. Someone who doesn’t buy the performance.”
“It’s not a performance,” Sloane muttered, but it was weak.
“It’s a masterpiece,” Violet corrected.“And he cracked the code.So you had to prove he hadn’t. By fucking him.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.” Violet wiped syrup from her chin.“And now there’s a baby. A tiny, puking complication.”
The word ‘baby’ felt foreign, dangerous. Sloane’s hand drifted to her stomach, still flat, still ostensibly hers. “I don’t know how to be a mother.”
“No one does,” Violet said, shrugging. “Look at Mom.”
Their mother was a beautiful, distant landscape painting.Perfect from afar, cold and empty up close. Their father had been the anchor, warm and steady, until his heart had simply stopped five years ago. Their mother had sold the house and moved to Arizona with a man who played golf six days a week within the year.“I won’t be like her,” Sloane said, the vow automatic.
“You won’t,” Violet agreed easily. “You’ll be worse in your own special way.More withholding, probably.But with better hair.” She softened. “Or you’ll be different.You get to choose.”
The diner door chimed. Sloane glanced up and her breath hitched.Kieran stood just inside, scanning the room. He wore dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt, the sleeves straining around his biceps. In the harsh fluorescent light, he looked even larger, more out of place.He hadn’t seen her yet.
“Oh, fuck,” Violet whispered, following her gaze.“Is that him? He looks like he murders people for a living. A sexy living, but still.”
Before Sloane could answer, his eyes found theirs.There was no surprise in them.He’d known she was here. He moved towards their booth, the diner chatter seeming to dip slightly in his wake.
“Sloane,” he said, stopping at the edge of their table.He didn’t smile. He just took her in, a quick, comprehensive sweep that missed nothing: the pallor of her skin, the half-finished ginger ale, the way her fingers were clenched around the glass. Then he turned his gaze to Violet. “You must be the sister.”
Violet leaned back, assessing him with a bravado Sloane knew was paper-thin.“And you must be the complication. I’m Violet.The one with the spoons.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. “Kieran.” He looked back at Sloane. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Bullshit,” Violet said pleasantly, taking a sip of her coffee.Kieran’s smirk solidified. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he slid into the booth next to Sloane, his weight making the old seat groan.His thigh pressed against hers, a solid line of heat. He was too close, the scent of him—clean cotton, cold air, and that faint, underlying note of metal and oil—filling her space.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her, his voice low.“Fine,” she said, the word brittle.
“She’s been puking all morning,” Violet supplied helpfully. “Hence the gourmet meal of fizzy sugar water.”
Kieran’s eyes never left Sloane’s face. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead.The touch was startlingly gentle, possessive. Sloane froze. “You need to eat something solid.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You will,” he agreed. “But you’ll do it now.” He caught the eye of a passing waitress, ordered a plain omelet and dry toast without consulting a menu. As if he’d already researched what she could tolerate.The audacity was breathtaking. Violet watched, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination.
“I’m capable of ordering my own food,” Sloane said, finding her voice.It trembled.
“I know you are.” The omelet arrived with shocking speed. He placed the plate in front of her, nudged the fork towards her hand.“Eat. You’ll feel better.”
It was the same tone he’d used in the shop: factual, unyielding. Sloane looked at the pale yellow omelet, felt her stomach rebel. But a deeper, more primal part, the quiet part, responded to the command.She picked up the fork.Took a small bite. It was bland, tasteless, but it stayed down.Watching her eat, Kieran seemed to relax minutely. He turned his attention to Violet. “She’s staying with you?”
“For now,” Violet said, her protective shield visibly rising.“Until she figures out what she’s doing. And until I decide you’re not a threat.”
“I’m not a threat to her.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Kieran nodded, accepting the challenge. “You’re right to be careful.”
His agreement threw Violet off balance.She blinked. “Damn right I am.”
Sloane ate another bite, the simple act requiring all her focus. The dynamic was surreal: her chaotic, colorful sister facing off across a Formica table against this still, intense man who had irrevocably altered the course of her life.And she was just the shaky neutral zone between them.
“I want to see you tomorrow,” Kieran said to Sloane, his voice leaving no room for the request it pretended to be.“Why?”
“We need to talk.Not here.” He paused. “My place.I’ll cook.”
Violet snorted.“Oh, a home-cooked meal. How charmingly domestic for a harbinger of doom.”
Kieran finally looked at Violet, a direct, unblinking stare.“I’m in this.All of it. That’s not going to change.You can stand in my way if you want. It’ll only make it harder for her.”
The blunt truth of it silenced even Violet. She opened her mouth, closed it again.Sloane felt the leash again, not as a restraint, but as a tether. A line connecting her to him, to this future she couldn’t yet see. The fight drained out of her, replaced by a weary sort of curiosity. What would it be like, to stop straining?To let the tether hold her weight?“What time?” she heard herself ask.
“Seven.” He placed a key on the table next to her plate. A single, old-fashioned skeleton key.“Top floor, the brick building on Waverly and Grafton. The name on the buzzer is ‘Ashford’.”
She stared at the key.It felt heavy, final.
He stood up, pulled a couple of bills from his wallet and laid them on the table, covering their check and more.He looked down at her, his grey eyes holding that same unsettling certainty. “Eat all of it.” Then he nodded at Violet. “Violet.”
And he was gone, the diner door chiming softly behind him.For a full minute, neither sister spoke. Sloane looked at the key, then at her half-eaten omelet.
“Well,” Violet finally breathed, fanning herself with a napkin. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“He’s… a lot.”
“Yeah.”
Violet reached across and picked up the key, turning it over in her fingers.“He just gave you a key.Like it was nothing. Like you showing up is a foregone conclusion.”
“It is, to him.”
“And to you?” Violet asked softly.Sloane didn’t answer. She picked up her fork and took another bite.The food was warmth.It was sustenance. It was a step forward she hadn’t chosen but was taking anyway.The quiet part inside her uncoiled, stretched, and settled. It was terrifying.It was a relief.She was going to have his baby.
She was going to go to his apartment tomorrow night.The facts lined up in her mind, simple and inexorable. She had spent her life building walls.He was a siege engine parked at the gate. And for reasons she couldn't fully name, parts of her—the darkest, hungriest parts—were already pulling the bolts free from the inside.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, answering Violet’s question. “But I’m going to find out.”