Chapter 20
twenty
VANESSA
It was the next day when I stepped into my makeshift design studio and realized something was truly, truly off.
If Elliott was home, he was still in his room; I hadn't heard him moving around the house at all. But things in my studio had been touched. Panic hit me like a physical blow. Several of my designs had been pulled off the mannequin and laid out on the desk, as if someone had been studying them as a set. If it was Elliott, this wasn’t like him.
Even when he did come in, he never moved a single pin.
The only other person who had been in the house last night was Emma. But surely, she wouldn’t be snooping… right? I was still trying to piece together what had been disturbed when Elliott walked in.
“Ness, we have to talk about a lot of things, but first—”
I spun around, cutting him off before he could find his rhythm. “Was she in here last night?”
He knew exactly who I meant. When his eyes landed on the sketches spread across my desk, the realization hit him, too. His face sank—and so did my heart. My chest tightened, my pulse spiking into a frantic rhythm.
“Please tell me she wasn’t in here, Elliott. Please,” I begged, my voice cracking.
“She was in here,” he confirmed.
Hot tears stung my eyes. My chest ached with the familiar weight of a boundary being trampled. I headed straight for the door, but he blocked my path.
“Please, let me explain.”
“No, I won’t let you explain. There’s nothing you could say that would make this okay. It’s hard enough to let you in here, Elliott—and this is your house. After everything I’ve been through, I thought you’d understand why I needed that privacy. I trusted you.”
He let out a short, cynical laugh. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t trust you. But have you given me a single reason to?”
That one landed. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened. He was the one who had showed up at my house uninvited and practically blackmailed me into this thirty-day arrangement. Just replaying the history made my blood boil.
“Please, Elliott. I just need to go.”
Whether it was because he saw the desperation in my eyes or realized he’d already lost this round, he finally stepped aside.
* * *
I didn't speak to anyone for days.
The night I left, I’d called the only person who could ground me—Morgan.
I wandered aimlessly through Elliott’s neighborhood until she found me.
She sat me down, let me cry into her lap, and stroked my hair.
Even with a wedding to plan and a baby growing inside her, she put her world on pause for me. It only made me cry harder.
When I could finally breathe, she explained what she could. She was my confidante, but she was his, too. They were siblings, and after the trauma they’d shared, their bond was a fortress. Nobody could touch it, not even me.
“I can’t say much about Emma and Elliott,” she told me, choosing her words with agonizing care. “But I can guarantee you have nothing to worry about. I swear it.”
Only then did I feel a flicker of relief.
Morgan wouldn't lie to me about something like this. She reassured me that Emma wasn’t another Ava—she was just a "fan.
" I had a hard time believing that, mostly because taking a compliment felt like pulling teeth for me. Another wonderful Miranda family trait I’d inherited.
After that, I locked myself in the studio and worked nonstop for three days. I barely ate; I barely slept. Whether it was the date with Julián or the fallout with Elliott, it fueled me. Designing was the only way to quiet the noise.
He’d asked for ten gowns. I designed fifteen.
Now I was in editing mode, making sure the collection felt cohesive.
All that was left was fabric shopping and chaining myself to the sewing machine.
That was the part I actually enjoyed—the construction.
The designing? That was brutal. The second-guessing and the imposter syndrome were constant shadows.
We hadn't spoken since the night he brought Emma home. I’d frantically searched for her online—Emma, a high-end denim designer with billionaire status.
Her jeans supposedly gave everyone a perfect ass, which explained the two-hundred-dollar price tag.
Not that I could judge; I’d already ordered a pair.
But then the realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. Oh my God. Was I designing a wedding dress for her without even knowing it? Were they more serious than anyone was letting on?
It hurt more than her touching my sketches ever could. I hated that I cared, but I did. I pushed the feeling down, refusing to dig deeper.
Elliott and I kept a wide berth. Even poor Steve didn’t know where to land, choosing “neutral zones” like the kitchen.
The poor dog had more anxiety than I did.
I made a mental note to sneak him treats; he’d already gained a few pounds since I’d moved in.
If Elliott noticed, he hadn't said anything. But what did he expect? I was my mother’s daughter. Feeding people was our love language.
The ice-out wouldn’t last much longer, though. Cabo was coming.
I hadn't even booked flights. The thought of celebrating love while barely keeping myself together felt impossible. I’d pushed it to the back of my mind, which meant I still hadn’t paid for a thing. Either Morgan or Elliott must have covered it, and I needed to find out so I could pay them back.
And tonight… it was my birthday dinner. I was officially twenty-eight.
I sucked my teeth, staring at my reflection.
Age was a construct. At heart, I still felt like an acne-prone, hormone-fueled, flat-chested, fourteen-year-old.
And honestly? I hoped I stayed that way forever.
Life was too short to stress about the inevitable.
If I was happy, if I had a job, and a good book to disappear into, then it was a life well spent. No matter the number.