CHAPTER 15 – CONFRONTING REALITY
Tara
If I don’t move, I can almost convince myself the world outside doesn’t exist. I’m nestled on the biggest section of Hunter’s couch, wrapped in a throw blanket so soft I keep stroking it without thinking.
The penthouse is still and peaceful, afternoon sun hitting the glass towers across the river and ricocheting light onto everything: the herringbone floors, the glass table, the absurdly expensive crystal vase with exactly three blue hydrangeas. The air is tranquil.
I hold a mug of hot chocolate—real milk, expensive cocoa, a marshmallow melting at the rim—and cradle it like it’s the only thing keeping my heart from shattering.
The steam rises and hits my cheeks. Every time I exhale, the surface of the drink ripples, but my fingers won’t stop trembling.
Not from cold. Just from being alive, I guess.
Hunter is at the far end of the L, one bare foot tucked under his thigh, eyes half on me, half on the skyline.
He’s wearing jeans and a dark cashmere pullover, and his hair is wet at the temples because he just showered.
We both did, after we got back, without a lot of words, merely making love again as the water pounded down on our naked bodies.
It should have been soothing, but I can tell he’s on edge.
I can feel him vibrating with energy, the way a barely-contained wolf might hover at the perimeter of a meadow, just waiting for what comes next.
But I’m not sure what’s going to happen next.
It’s been three hours since I dragged myself out of Lake Harriet, three hours since I remembered everything.
Now my brain is leaking memories like a sieve.
Sometimes they’re little flashes, like a soundbite or a single line of dialogue.
Sometimes it’s a montage, ten seconds of fast cuts and sensory overload.
Most are benign: the sticky sweet of marshmallow Fluff on a plastic spoon; the feel of carpet burn on my knees; the sound of Eliza shrieking when we jumped off the dock in August, pretending to be mermaids.
Some are less than pleasant—arguing with my father, hiding in the laundry room while my mother threatened to call the police; the overwhelming sadness when I learned they were going to divorce.
Then there’s everything I lived as Daisy, the fractured fairy tale version of me.
Auctioned off in a filmy white dress, wearing skyscraper heels while tottering like a newborn filly.
Sitting in a restaurant at Sanctum, hands folded, pretending not to notice the hush of men’s voices.
The way Hunter looked at me, the way his breath felt on my cheek, the way I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything.
Those memories don’t come in flashes. They’re slow and thick, like honey.
I savor them, even when they make my chest ache.
Hunter clears his throat, shifting, as if the silence is a bone stuck in his throat.
“You warm enough?” he says. Voice low, gentle, almost unfamiliar.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My face is already on fire, and it’s not the blanket’s fault.
It’s because I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes, staring into space, and all I can think about is how he tasted when I kissed him.
How I begged him to finish what he started. How it felt when he did.
Another memory detonates: the auction stage.
I’m standing on the black velvet dais, the lights so bright I can’t see a thing, the filmy dress not much more than a shadow.
There’s a murmur, a rustle of expectation from the male audience, and for a second I think I’ll faint.
Then I look up, and see Hunter in the distance, eyes burning blue, and I know it’s for me. I want it to be for me.
I take a tiny sip of hot chocolate, trying to slow the gallop in my chest.
“I’m not embarrassed,” I blurt, before I can stop myself.
Hunter’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t say anything.
I set the mug down, careful not to slosh, and force my hands to lie flat on my thighs.
“I mean, I should be, right? I should be completely mortified that I was sold at a virgin auction. That I let men look at me in the nude. That they were able to bid on my assets, and the right to claim my virginity.” My cheeks flush hot, but I hold steady. “But I’m not. I’m not embarrassed.”
He lets out a long, soft exhale. Like he’s been holding his breath since the beginning of time.
“You shouldn’t be,” he says, and his voice has a rough edge I’ve never heard before.
“It’s not just that,” I say, because I can’t stop now, not when it feels like the words are digging me out of my own grave.
“I wanted it, Hunter. Even before I knew who I was. I wanted to be claimed. I wanted it to mean something.” I search his face, desperate to see if he understands.
“I wanted you to want me. Not Daisy, not Tara. Just me, whoever she was.”
Hunter’s jaw flexes, like he’s fighting back something fierce. For a long, endless minute, he doesn’t move at all. Then he gets up, crosses the space between us in three silent steps, and sits on the edge of the couch right by my feet.
“You have no idea how badly I wanted you,” he rasps, the words are barely a whisper. “Even when I knew I shouldn’t. Especially then.”
I want to touch him, but my hands are frozen to the wool of the throw. “Do you hate me?” I ask. “For being so broken and confused and complicated?”
He shakes his head, and his eyes are wet. “No,” he says, and there’s something holy in it. “I love you, Tara. In every way a person can.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just breathe, and let the silence gather around us, warm and absolute.
The city outside keeps glittering, cold and perfect, but in here it’s just us, and the truth.
And I realize for the first time ever, that’s all I really need.
His declaration sits between us, almost tangible in the air. Hunter doesn’t move at first, like he’s waiting for an alarm to sound, for the floor to give way. But it’s me who shifts, tucking my feet under the blanket and hugging my knees close, trying to make myself smaller.
The silence stretches. The hydrangeas on the table seem to wilt a little, as if even the flowers can’t bear the tension.
Hunter gets up, restless energy rippling through his big body. He stands by the window, hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring out at the city. The afternoon sun catches in the glass, turning his reflection into a blue silhouette, and for a minute, he just stays that way—half real, half ghost.
“I’m not sure you understand,” he says, voice almost swallowed by the hum of HVAC. “How long I’ve been fighting this.”
He runs a hand through his hair, rough, almost violent. “You blossomed almost overnight, Tara. I mean that literally. It’s like you woke up one morning and you weren’t a kid anymore. You were a woman. But the moment I saw it, I wanted it. That’s how fucked up I am.”
He turns, leans his forehead against the window, and lets out a sound—part laugh, part groan.
“I stopped by the house one day—this was, god, senior year for you? I was supposed to pick up some paperwork for Dad, and you’d just come back from tennis practice.
You were in a tiny white skirt showing off long, golden legs, and your hair was all over the place.
You smiled at me like you hadn’t seen me in years, and goddamn, baby.
You were so gorgeous with those big tits, innocent smile, and legs that went on for days.
I almost lost it right there, because you were so gorgeous. But you were young, baby. Too young.”
He flinches, the memory hot enough to burn through his skin.
“I didn’t go to family dinners after that unless I knew you’d be busy.
If Mom asked, I’d say I was working. Sometimes I was, but mostly I was just trying not to see you, because I couldn’t trust myself.
” He laughs again, bitter. “It never worked. Every time I showed up, you’d be there, even more beautiful than I remembered, and I’d have to leave early just to keep it together. ”
He looks at me, finally, and his eyes are raw. “I was terrified, Tara. Not for you, but for myself. Because I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and I couldn’t tell if it was love or obsession, or just a fucked-up combination of both. Yet you’re my stepsister.”
I want to say something, but I can’t. I just stare at him, letting the words sink in, my own breath loud in my ears.
He starts pacing, back and forth across the vast expanse of the living room, pausing only to glance at the skyline. “When you disappeared, we didn’t know for a while, actually. I think Eliza might have called our parents later that night, but they didn’t think to call me immediately.”
He stops by the table, palms flat on the glass, knuckles whitening.
“Then, when I saw you on the street, after the accident, I knew it was you. I didn’t care that you didn’t remember me.
I just—” His voice breaks, and for the first time, I realize he’s close to tears.
“I just wanted to have you. Even if it was wrong. Even if you hated me later.”
He swallows hard, then sits back on the edge of the couch. His hands are shaking.
The whole time, the city is silent behind us. We’re so far above the ground, so isolated, that it almost feels like being in a spaceship, drifting in orbit and waiting for rescue. Or disaster.
I loosen my grip on the blanket, let my legs fall to the side, and just look at him. Hunter, the man who paid millions to buy me, to keep me safe, to keep me all to himself. Hunter, the man who’s been holding this secret for weeks.
My mouth is dry. “Why are you telling me this now?” I whisper.
He shrugs, helpless. “You asked for the truth.”
I nod, even though I didn’t really. Not like this. But maybe I did.
He laughs, sharp and self-loathing. “You probably think I’m a monster.”
I shake my head, slow, deliberate. “No. Just a man who desires someone off limits. His younger sister.”
Hunter looks away, as if the sun hurts his eyes.
And in that moment, I want to reach for him, to erase all the years of shame and loneliness. But I can’t—not yet.
We sit like that, on opposite ends of the couch, with a whole universe of unsaid things stretched between us.
Outside, the city glows gold and blue, indifferent to everything but its own endless hunger.
Inside, there’s only us. And the truths we finally can’t outrun.
I don’t know who breaks first—me, or the spell.
Maybe it’s both. My eyes sting, hot and then cold, as tears slip down my cheeks before I can even register them.
It’s embarrassing, and I try to swipe them away with the back of my hand, but they just keep coming, making my skin raw.
I want to curl up and disappear into the sofa, but that would only make me look as weak as I feel.
Hunter doesn’t notice at first. Or pretends not to. He’s staring at the skyline, so far away he could be in another world.
“My crush on you started the day our parents got married,” I say, and the words are so small, so raw, I don’t recognize them as mine.
“You were so handsome. You showed up in a dark suit, hair slicked back, and everyone talked about how smart and rich you were going to be. They had no idea that you’d become a literal billionaire in command of a generative AI company.
But even back then, you were the only person who talked to me like I was a real person. Not some kid.”
I grip the mug harder, as if it’s the only thing anchoring me to the moment.
“I was in high school, and none of the boys at school liked me. Not really. They were all scared of me, or made fun of me, or just ignored me.” My voice wobbles. “But you… you saw me. Not just the girl everyone else ignored.”
Hunter doesn’t move, but I catch the hitch in his breath.
I keep going. “I remember one time, at Thanksgiving, you made a joke about how I was going to take over the world. I laughed so hard, I cried. Not because it was funny, but because I wanted to believe it was true. I wanted to be someone worth noticing.”
The next words come out like a confession in a church. “You were the first person I ever wanted, Hunter. I thought it would go away, but it never did. Not even when I lost my memory. Not even when I was Daisy. Somehow my mind and body knew you. They could sense you, like we’re fated.”
My whole body shakes now, and I set the mug down before I drop it. The sound of ceramic on glass is sharp, final.
“But I need space,” I say, standing up. “I need time to figure out who I am. This is—” I gesture at the skyline, at him, at the whole glimmering apartment, “—this is a lot to process.”
Hunter looks up, and for the first time since we got back, he looks truly lost.
He nods, and the motion is so small it’s almost invisible. “Do what you need to, Tara. I love you no matter what.”
I walk to the door, then stop, hands shaking so hard I can barely manage the zipper on my coat. My purse is a tangled mess, the strap caught on a chair leg, and it takes me three tries to get it loose. Every motion feels like I’m underwater, slow and thick.
When I turn back, Hunter is still on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the spot where I’d just been. His hands are pressed together, and I realize they’re trembling, too.
“I’ll stay at Sanctum,” I say. “Just for a while. I don’t know if I’ll come back. I don’t know if I can.”
He says nothing, and I turn resolutely, heading towards the door.
After all, some things can’t be finished in a single afternoon.
Some things take a lifetime.