The One She Needed

SIXTEEN

RAQUEL

I hadn't meant to ignore him, and yet I had. Fear had held me back—fear of facing him, of telling him everything. Despite everything, I was still marrying Terrance. Despite everything, I was still too ashamed to admit that I might just be in love with a younger man.

A man who had, in part, awakened something in me. A man who knew how to hold me, how to talk to me.

But my mother's voice echoed in my mind, sharp and unwavering: None of those things matter.

When Alex appeared at my doorstep, I had to fight the overwhelming urge to run into his arms. I had to keep it together. I had to remind myself that the illusion of Derek and me had to remain intact. Now, at this engagement party—Mother's idea to silence the rumors of Alex and me—I watched the sea of familiar faces, all plastic smiles and empty conversations, as supposed friends and family nibbled on finger foods.

Arms wrapped around me. Cold lips pressed against my forehead. My body tensed at his touch.

"Heard your little boy toy made an appearance," Derek murmured, his smile unwavering, but his tone carried an edge. This entire act—the happy couple charade—wasn't convincing enough, and the engagement party was a desperate attempt to repair the cracks in the facade.

I cringed at the thought of how my mother had treated Alex tonight, how things had unraveled. When he confessed his love for me, my heart swelled. His blue eyes held such sincerity that, for a fleeting moment, I wanted to say it back.

But I couldn't. I just couldn't. Not after Brandon, my so-called stepfather, threatened me. Not after I was forced to tell Alex, through clenched teeth and unshed tears, that I didn't feel the same.

I had lied.

I felt so much more than love. If it was even possible to feel beyond that.

"I'm surprised you even noticed Alex was here, given how you've been ogling Maria's breasts all night," I muttered, my voice laced with venom.

Derek's arm tightened around me, his grip enough to make me wince. "Easy, Raquel. Just because I apologized doesn't mean I won't hesitate to put you in your place."

"Fuck you, Derek."

"When did you develop such a filthy mouth? Was it before or after you fucked my assistant?"

"Since you stopped being a man."

He sipped his champagne, unfazed, his smirk never faltering. "Say what you will about me, sweetheart. But at least I sleep with people who have more than three zeros in their bank accounts. I fuck quality."

He lived to make me feel small. But I refused to give him the satisfaction.

I turned on my heels and pushed past the mingling guests, desperate for air, brushing off yet another 'friend' trying to get the latest details on the wedding.

Wipe away the issues, little one. Wallow no more, for today, what's done is done...

The nausea clawed at my throat, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I heaved up the remnants of last night. The party had ended after I made my excuses—stress, exhaustion, wedding planning, all of it just a well-crafted lie.

Morning light filtered through my kitchen as I sat at the island, head pounding. The house was empty, a small mercy. I could only tolerate Derek in small doses, and he still valued his own space too much to move in. Besides, Maria wouldn't be as keen to fuck him if I was around to overhear. The thought alone made my headache intensify.

Angie was on her way. She was the only person who could offer even an ounce of comfort, the only person who understood that this wasn't just about a wedding. If things were simpler, I could just call Alex, tell him everything, and—

I sighed, rubbing my temples.

I just felt so damn pathetic. And I never swore this much.

I missed my father. I knew I should stop ignoring his calls, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. I was scared.

A knock at the door jolted me. Angie had a spare key, but maybe she'd forgotten it. With a groan, I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting. Absent-mindedly, my hand rested on my stomach as I reached for the doorknob.

But it wasn't Angie standing on the other side.

It was the one person I wasn't sure I was ready to see.

"Are you going to let me in?" she asked, shifting her weight awkwardly.

Morgan.

It had been two years since I last saw her, and even now, I couldn't just open my arms and pretend things were fine. We had never been on the best of terms. I eyed her warily, wondering what had dragged her to my doorstep.

"Just like Mother," I muttered, unmoving. "You vanish for years, then show up unannounced without so much as a hello."

She looked the same—polished, designer-clad, every inch the golden child. But then I noticed the suitcase behind her. My brow arched in question.

"It's a long story," she murmured, biting her lip, fingers twisting together.

Morgan. Nervous.

I never thought I'd see the day.

"Get in," I sighed, stepping aside. I hoped I wouldn't regret it.

As she settled into my living room, we observed each other in heavy silence. She looked good—annoyingly so—for a woman who had given birth to three kids.

"So... how have you been?"

I narrowed my eyes.

Was this some new game?

"Well, besides your screwed-up parents ruining my life, I'm just dandy," I deadpanned.

She sighed. "You don't have to be so hostile. I just wanted to check on you."

"Morgan, you had eighteen years to acknowledge I was your sister. If Mother sent you here to patronize me, the door's right there."

She sniffled.

I froze.

Tears slid down her face, her frame trembling. In all my life, I had never seen Morgan cry. She always held herself together, always kept her emotions locked behind an impenetrable mask.

I shifted uncomfortably. "Are you... okay?"

She let out a humorless laugh. "Are you kidding me? I'm sitting here crying, and that's all you have to say?"

I rolled my eyes. "Excuse me for not knowing how to console Mommy's little princess."

"Don't call me that. And don't mention that woman to me."

Something cracked in her voice. She was practically vibrating with anger.

"Morgan... what happened?"

She hesitated, then, without a word, stood up. My heart pounded as she removed her shirt and turned around.

Bruises. Scars. Deep, angry welts across her skin.

I swallowed thickly, my stomach churning.

"I tried to get Mom's help," she whispered. "She sided with him."

Morgan—the golden child, the perfect one—had been discarded the moment she became inconvenient.

"Why are you really here?" I asked.

She took a shaky breath. "Because I don't want you to fall like I did."

I should have been skeptical. I should have turned her away.

Instead, I said, "You can stay."

And as she hugged me, I realized—despite everything—we weren't so different after all.