Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Shae
Iris smiles like someone who practices in the mirror.
I arrive three minutes late on purpose. I don’t do punctual. Punctual is for people who fear consequences.
She’s in the back corner—eyes on the entrance, the counter, the hallway to the bathrooms. Smart. Paranoid. Familiar.
She looks like me the way a rumor looks like a fact if you repeat it long enough.
Blonde hair, straight and glossy. Lashes sharp enough to cut. Skin that reads expensive even under fluorescent café light. All black, like it isn’t a mood—it’s a message.
She stands when she sees me.
Not like a sister. Like an equal.
Or a competitor.
“Shae,” she says, studying me the way you study a reflection you intend to improve.
I slide into the chair across from her. No hug. She doesn’t reach. Point in her favor. People who force affection are always performing.
“Cute spot,” I say, watching her hands—nails, knuckles, the way her fingers wrap around her cup. No ring. No tremor. No nervous picking. Just stillness.
“It’s quiet,” she says. “Privacy is a love language.”
I snort. “Mine is silence.”
She smiles, entertained. “You do silence well.”
My spine stays loose. My mind tightens. “You’ve watched me.”
“You’re hard not to watch,” Iris says, casual, like we’re discussing weather. “You’re on screens. You’re on podcasts. You’re… a topic.”
“A topic,” I repeat. “How flattering.”
“I’m not flattering you.” Her eyes barely blink. “I’m stating a fact.”
A server appears. Iris orders something with oat milk. I order black coffee because I prefer my edges intact.
When the server leaves, Iris leans forward slightly, like she’s beginning a meeting.
“So,” she says. “Do you believe me?”
“I believe you wrote a letter.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
I tap my phone against the table once. Controlled. Clean. “What do you want?”
Her smile widens. “Straight to business. We really might be related.”
“I don’t know that.”
Something flickers—annoyance, delight. With people like us, it’s hard to tell.
“You want proof,” she says.
“I want certainty,” I reply. “If you’re stepping into my life, you don’t get to do it as a mystery.”
Her gaze sharpens. “Mystery is how you got famous.”
“Try again.”
She sits back, slow, settling into her role. “Okay. You want DNA.”
“I want a test.”
“And if I say no?” Her voice goes sweet. “If I say I don’t want my genetic material in some database. I don’t want to be tracked. Labeled. Categorized.”
I stare at her. Connection or control—either way, she wants it badly. If she is my sister, God has a sense of humor I don’t appreciate.
“That’s dramatic,” I say.
“It’s accurate.”
“You reached out to me,” I remind her. “You don’t get to demand closeness and refuse verification.”
Her jaw tightens. “So you don’t believe me.”
“I’m saying I don’t know you.”
Her fingers curl around her cup. “You know me.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You know the shape of me,” Iris says, dropping her voice like it’s a secret. “You know what it’s like to be built wrong and blamed for it.”
Built wrong.
My stomach turns, not fear, not anger—recognition. And recognition feels too much like surrender.
“I don’t get blamed for anything anymore,” I say.
Her gaze skims my face like she’s reading a script only she has. “Sure. The world loves you. For now.”
“Is that supposed to threaten me?”
“It’s supposed to remind you how fast love turns,” Iris says. “Ask any fallen celebrity. Ask any woman who was a saint until she became inconvenient.”
I keep my tone light. “You’ve been binge-watching my life.”
“I’ve been studying you.”
“That’s creepier.”
She doesn’t deny it. She takes a careful sip, sets the cup down like punctuation. “You curate. You spin. You make things disappear in plain sight. It’s… art.”
My smile sharpens. “And you think we’re sisters because you admire me.”
“I think we’re sisters because we share roots,” Iris says. “And because I know things.”
“Like what?”
She leans in. “Like your father.”
The word lands like a cheap shot—like a fist thrown by someone who knows where the bruises hide.
I keep my voice bored. “What about him?”
“He’s walking around like he’s redeemed,” she says with a flare of anger. “Like he didn’t ruin lives.”
I watch her now, more carefully. “You don’t know him. Not really.”
“I know what he is.”
I laugh once, sharp. “Adorable. You write me a dramatic letter about a man you barely know.”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t call it dramatic.”
“What do you want from me?” I ask again, slower.
Her smile returns, thinner. “I want family.”
She says family the way other people say weapon.
“Family,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
I study her face. “That’s a joke.”
“It’s not.”
“You don’t know me,” I say. “You don’t love me. You don’t want family. You want access.”
Her eyes widen in wounded innocence—too clean to be real. “You think everything is a transaction.”
I lean forward. “It is.”
Something shifts—irritation, like she hates being seen too clearly.
“Fine,” Iris says. “Yes. I want access.”
I blink. “Oh. Honesty. Cute.”
“I want to be close to you,” she says, firm now. “Because you have power. And because you’re the only person on earth who won’t look at me like I’m sick.”
“Are you sick?” I ask.
Her smile snaps back into place. “Depends who’s asking.”
“I’m asking.”
“And I’m answering,” Iris says lightly. “I’m fine.”
“Fine people don’t write letters like that,” I say. “Fine people don’t drop into my orbit with secrets and a tone.”
Her fingers drum once on the table. “You think you’re the only one who can play a game.”
“Are we playing?”
Her eyes gleam. “Aren’t we always?”
The server returns with my coffee. Iris waits until she’s gone, then says, almost casual, “You mentioned someone in one of your interviews. The Watcher.”
My hand stills on the cup.
I keep my voice flat. “What about them?”
Iris watches me like she’s waiting for a twitch. “I think it’s funny you’re bothered by an anonymous voice with a microphone.”
“I’m not bothered.”
“Mm.” She nods slowly. “Sure.”
I lean in, my smile gentle in the way a scalpel is gentle. “Are you The Watcher?”
Her expression holds for one full second—too still. Then she laughs.
Not warm. Not amused. A laugh like she’s trying on a sound.
“I could be,” she says. “Wouldn’t that be delicious?”
My throat tightens. I swallow it down.
“You’re unstable,” I say softly.
Her smile widens. “That’s not a denial.”
“I didn’t deny anything,” I say. “I asked.”
Iris tilts her head, mirroring me. Copying. “You don’t like not knowing, do you?”
“I don’t,” I admit.
“I can tell.” Her gaze flicks to my hands. “You’re controlling your fingers. That’s a tell.”
I still my hands completely.
“Better?” I ask.
“Worse.” Her eyes brighten. “Now you look like you’re deciding whether to hurt someone.”
I stare at her. “Are you baiting me?”
“I’m trying to meet you,” she says, sweet again—syrup over a blade. “The real you. Not the version they put on TV.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. I’m not giving Blake this moment. Not yet.
“Fine,” I say. “We do DNA. Private lab. No database. No paper trail. Just confirmation.”
Her face changes so fast it’s almost funny. Calm drops. Sweetness collapses. Eyes go sharp—too bright.
“No,” she snaps.
I blink. “No?”
“I said no.” She leans forward hard enough that her cup rattles. “You don’t get to demand pieces of me.”
“You demanded pieces of me,” I say evenly. “You walked into my life. You don’t get offended when I ask for proof.”
Her breath quickens. She’s slipping.
“You think you’re above me,” Iris hisses.
I hold her gaze. “I think you’re lying.”
Her smile goes feral. “I think you’re scared.”
It hits—not because it’s true, but because she wants it to be. She wants me off-balance. Reaching.
“You’re acting unstable,” I say.
She laughs loud enough that the couple nearby glances over. A barista looks up. Iris doesn’t care.
“Unstable?” she echoes. “Coming from you?”
“Lower your voice,” I say.
“You don’t control me,” Iris snaps.
I inhale slowly. There’s a small, buried part of me that flares—something close to panic. Not because I’m afraid of her physically. Because she’s unpredictable.
I can weaponize normal.
I can’t weaponize chaos.
“Okay,” I say, soothing, like I’m talking to a stray dog. “You’re right. I don’t control you.”
Her eyes narrow—suspicious of kindness. As she should be.
“I just want to know who you are,” I continue. “And if you’re family.”
“I am,” Iris says, voice shaking now. “I’m your sister.”
“Then prove it,” I say softly.
Her hands clench, nails digging into her palms. “You want proof so you can own me.”
I blink. “That’s delusional.”
“You want to put me in a box,” she says, words tumbling faster. “Label me. Use me. Like everyone does.”
“I’m not everyone.”
Her eyes shine. “No. You’re worse.”
Now the couple is staring. Iris shoves her chair back; it scrapes loud.
“Fine,” she says, too bright. “You want proof? Here’s proof—I know things no one else knows.”
I don’t move. “Like what?”
She leans over the table, close enough that I can see the tremor in her pupils. “Like what you did for love.”
My stomach drops.
I force a laugh. “You’re guessing.”
“No,” Iris whispers. “I’m not.”
I hold her gaze. “Say it.”
Her smile turns small and sharp. “You know exactly what I mean.”
A beat. A dare.
Then Iris straightens, snatches her bag, and looks down at me like she pities me.
“You can have your little lab test,” she says, suddenly calm, like the outburst never happened. “Just not yet. Not until you earn it.”
“Earn it,” I repeat, flat.
“Yes.” Her eyes gleam. “You want family? You act like family.”
My jaw locks. “I don’t want family.”
Iris smiles wider. “Liar.”
Then she turns and walks out.
No apology. No cleanup. No explanation.
Chaos with lipstick.
I sit there a moment longer, staring at the door she disappeared through.
My phone buzzes again. This time I pull it out.
Blake: You okay? ETA 20. Need anything?
I type: Fine.
Delete it.
Type: Home soon.