Chapter 13 - The Unwelcome Visitor
A week later, as I was reviewing architectural blueprints for the new library wing in the mansion's east salon, the front desk receptionist buzzed through the intercom.
“Mrs. Vance? There’s a woman downstairs asking to see you. She says she’s your sister, Paulina.”
I didn't look up from my blueprints. “Did she make an appointment?”
“No, ma'am. She’s... well, she’s causing a bit of a scene near the entrance. Refusing to leave.”
“Send security to escort her off the property,” I said coldly.
“Wait,” Andrés said, stepping into the room. He looked out the window toward the front courtyard. “Let her up.”
“Andrés, I have no desire to listen to her whining,” I replied, setting my pen down.
“Trust me,” Andrés smiled, a glint of steel in his eyes. “You’ll want to hear what she has to say. Sometimes, watching them hit rock bottom is the best part of the show.”
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the salon swung open. Paulina walked in.
She looked a shadow of her former self. Her designer pearls were gone, replaced by a cheap, unbranded silver chain. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail without a trace of professional styling, and her eyes were ringed with dark, exhausted circles. She looked like a woman who hadn’t slept in a week.
“Mara,” Paulina whispered, stopping midway across the Persian rug. The name sounded like a prayer muttered by a dying sinner.
“Paulina,” I said evenly, remaining seated behind the large mahogany desk that had once belonged to our mother. “You’re trespassing. The restraining order explicitly prohibits you from coming within five hundred meters of this property.”
Paulina didn't yell. She didn't snap with her usual haughty arrogance. Instead, her knees buckled, and she sank onto the Persian rug, bursting into desperate, ragged sobs.
“Please, Mara... please help us,” Paulina choked out, pressing her palms together in a gesture of absolute supplication. “Diego is facing twenty years in federal prison. Our bank accounts are seized. The landlord of our apartment is evicting us tomorrow morning because we can’t pay rent. Mom hasn’t eaten a proper meal in three days; she’s sick, Mara. She’s old and she’s sick.”
May you like
I looked down at my sister—the woman who had held my arm back while our mother threw my four-year-old daughter to the floor, the woman who had mocked my clothes and my husband for a decade.
“And when you threw my four-year-old daughter onto a marble floor and told us we were common trash who didn't belong at your table,” I asked, my voice chillingly soft, “did you think about what kind of future you were building for yourselves?”
