The first compliment hits me like a drug.

"Oh my God, Tina... you look so good."

It's our maid, Christa. I smile big and bright, teeth and everything. I have never smiled so much in my life.

"Really?" I twirl, showing off the black dress. Like I didn't spend two hours perfecting my eyeliner at Veronica's. Like I didn't tear through her shop. It works. Because Christa looks awe-struck.

"You cut your hair," She says as if I don't already know.

I fight the urge to touch it. It's shorter now, barely brushing my shoulders, soft waves replacing the once lifeless strands. For years, I kept it long because people told me I should. That it was pretty and feminine. That I was prettier that way.

But this? This is mine.

"Yeah," I keep my voice light. "Figured it was time for a change."

And because I'm feeling bold, because I'm high off the rush of it all, I lean in just enough to whisper. "Turns out pretty girls don't need to cry over bad haircuts."

Christa laughs and puts a plate full of brownies in front of me. I jump at the invitation.

The sugar rush doesn't hit the hollow part of my chest though. I wish it did.

Christa's brownies melt on my tongue just the way I like them. I let the sweetness chase away the bitter taste of whatever has been rotting inside me.

"Good?" She asks, wiping her hands on her apron.

I shoot her a grin. "If I ever marry, you're coming with me."

She rolls her eyes. "That's what your sister said too."

The mention of her tugs something deep, but I push it away. She doesn't know what happened today, and I hope she won't. Cause she worries too much for me and that makes me sick. It makes me feel more miserable than I am.

Just as I am about to put another brownie in my mouth, I hear it. The sound of heels. I freeze.

"Tina?"

Her voice. My mother. The world slows.

I don't turn immediately. I don't have to. I can already picture her... poised, calm, breath-taking in the way only Rara Romanovski can be. A woman who commands rooms without trying.

My heart does a stupid, pathetic thing. It races. Not with excitement. Not even fear. Just... the need. The desperate, clawing need for... I turn.

She's staring. At my dress. My hair. Me.

The compliment doesn't come this time.

"Tina... baby..." her voice is soft. Soft in a way that means she's thinking.

I steel myself. Smile bright and chirp. "Mama!"

Silence. Dead and dread. She doesn't smile, just the flickering eyes that move from my dress to my head like she can't recognise me.

"Are you okay?" My stomach knots.

I feel something then. Something that makes my throat tight, my ribs ache. Because of course she sees it. Of course she does.

I try to laugh, but it sounds too forced. "I just wanted a change."

Her eyes don't leave mine. There's a gravity in them. She has always been a woman who knows things, and right now, she knows. Even if she doesn't say it.

Before she can speak, I feel another presence.

I don't have to look to know who it is. "Papa..."

His name is a breath, a prayer and my anchor.

Ralph Romano stands just behind her, his face is unreadable but his eyes are soft. Always soft for me. He takes me in, head to toe. Like he's assessing the damage. "You're looking beautiful."

I smile, but it doesn't reach me. Christa clears her throat, excusing herself in the kitchen. Papa took a step down the stairs and Mama followed him.

"You'll tell me if something bothers you, right?"

A crack forms inside me. I nod, too quickly. "Of course."

He opens his arms. And just like that, the crack becomes a break. I step forward, and throw myself in his arms. The moment his arms wrap around me, the last bit of my resolve wobbles. Because Ralph Romano is not a man of many words, but when he holds me, I feel all of them.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe him in and then pull back with a wide grin. "Jeez, when did you start getting sentimental?"

He gives me a look, one I ignore.

Mama is still watching, so I spin the fabric of my dress. "Like it?"

"Tina..."

I cut her off. "Come on, say it. I know you want to. I look better than Anya, right?"

Mama sighs. "You both are beautiful in my eyes, baby."

I laugh loud dragging my parents to the table. "Yes, yes, she's not here, so you can tell me I'm your favourite child."

Papa shakes his head. "I love you all equally."

A warm ache blooms in my chest, the kind that almost... almost... makes me feel real. I know he loves all of us equally. And so do I.

I hold onto it tightly.

I have to.

Because if I don't... I'll start thinking again. I'll start hearing that voice in the back of my head whispering. I am still smiling when I feel something dropping on the floor with a loud thud.

Startle, I turn.

Anya stands in the doorway, her sunglasses dangling from one hand, her other frozen midair as if she'd stopped breathing. Her mouth is slightly open, eyes darting over me like she's looking at a ghost.

"Holy fucking shit..."

Papa clears his throat beside me, but I barely hear it. My lips twitch, and I twirl for her. "Do I look good?"

Anya blinks twice. "Good? Uglier than ever."

"Anya," papa says, but it only makes her grin wider.

In the next second, she's on me, her arms wrapping around me so tightly I almost stumble back. I barely have time to react before she's shaking me by the shoulders. "You left me at college," She accuses, her green eyes narrow. "I was spooning for you like crazy."

I snort, pushing her off me slightly. "Swooning, Anya. The word is swooning."

"Whatever," She huffs, though the slight pink of her cheeks tells me she knows exactly what she said. Then her gaze sharpens. "And why... I mean... how..."

She doesn't finish. But I know what she means.

I know what she's seeing.

I force a smile. 'I wanted a change," I say, avoiding Anya's eyes.

It's not the truth. But if I say it enough times, maybe it'll start to feel like one.

I let go of her and turn to Papa and Mama instead. "You must be getting late."

Papa rolls his eyes. "We are," Mama says, smoothing the front of his coat before turning back to us. : But we'll be back. Killian will be babysitting your kids, so don't give him a headache. He says you girls always-"

"He exaggerates," Papa says instead.

"Yes." Anya agrees.

Mama narrows her eyes. 'he's your father, kids."

"Yeah, yeah," Anya grumbles, crossing her arms. 'And Judas is his favourite child."

I laugh, shaking my head as Papa and Mama step out the door. I watch them go, lingering for just a second longer before turning back to Anya, who is already dragging me toward the kitchen.

Christa sets down a plate of brownies as we slide into our usual seats. I reach for one, but my fingers pause. I shouldn't ask. I know I shouldn't. But the words are already on my tongue. "Take me to your parts tonight."

Anya freezes mid-bite. "What?"

My stomach clenches.

I don't do parties. I don't do the noise, the crowds, the suffocating press of bodies and too-loud music and sticky floors. I don't do any of it.

And yet, here I am. Asking. Because I need something. Distraction. Escape. A moment where I don't have to be Krystina Romaovski... where I don't have to be anything at all.

I press the brownie into my palm. "I just..." I swallow. "I want to go."

Anya studies me for a beat too long. Like Judas would do, and then she grins. "Oh, hell yes." 

*****