33. Helen
HELEN
Just like that, Olivia’s break is coming to an end, Baby Lio is home, and the baby talk has finally subsided.
Liam had been unexpectedly adorable with Lio.
But the way he overthinks everything, and the fact that he still hasn’t seriously considered having a family at his age… it presses at a place I didn’t expect.
Is that a red flag?
Or a green one? As in, it’s proof he doesn’t take something like that lightly?
“No. No!” Olivia says, phone in one hand, suitcase handle in the other.
“What?”
Alaska circles her legs.
“My flight’s been canceled!”
“Well…we’ll book another one.”
“Good luck with that,” she fires back, already tapping furiously. “I really have to get back tonight. We’ve got clinical trial intake tomorrow morning, and my lab is counting on me.”
“Okay. Okay.” I start pacing, running through options. None of them work.
When I turn back to Olivia, my phone lights up.
“Hey!” His voice comes through the line.
“Liam. Hey.”
“I was just checking. Olivia’s flying home this morning, right?”
Wow. I did not account for this level of foresight. “Yes,” I answer.
“I’ve got a guest based in Brooklyn heading to JFK as well. If your sister’s ready and doesn’t mind sharing the ride, I can have my driver swing by.”
How is he this thoughtful?
“Well…her flight’s been canceled, and we can’t get another one. It’s chaos out there,” I say, glancing at Olivia, who looks close to tears.
“Oh? Okay, sounds like commercial isn’t happening.”
“Unfortunately. There are no other options.”
For a second, I assume he’s about to apologize.
“Take my jet.”
“What?”
“Take it. I won’t need it for the next few days.”
“Liam…” I start to refuse on reflex, but this isn’t about pride. “Okay. Thank you. You have no idea what this means. You’re saving her.”
“My driver will be there in fifteen.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell her to have a great flight.”
I stare at my phone for a second, then look up at Olivia and take her hand. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not, Leany.” Her voice cracks.
“You’re flying private.”
She blinks. “What do you mean?”
“Liam just offered you his jet.”
Her mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious.”
She squeals and throws her arms around me.
“His driver’s on the way. Let’s wait outside,” I say, grabbing her suitcase.
Olivia hugs me again, laughing and crying at the same time.
God. He really did that.
Moments later a long black car slides to the curb.
Olivia freezes. “Is that—”
The Rolls-Royce stops directly in front of us. The driver steps out in a tailored dark suit, smiling at us.
Olivia stares. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “No. No. That’s not for me.”
“It is,” I say. “Told you. Fifteen minutes.”
The driver inclines his head. “Miss Olivia?”
She looks at me like I’ve been secretly running a parallel life.
“Go,” I whisper. “Clinical trials wait for no one.”
She launches at me again, fierce and shaky. “Thank you. Seriously. Tell Liam I’ll never forget this.”
“I will.”
The rear door opens.
A young, impeccably dressed man steps out. Dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of face that makes airport lounges more interesting.
“Hi,” he says warmly. “You must be the other VIP.”
Damn his accent! Olivia stops crying instantly.
“Oh,” she breathes, swiping at her cheeks. “Hi.”
I lean toward her ear. “Remarkable recovery.”
“Shut up,” she hisses, already blushing.
The driver lifts her suitcase while the young man reaches for her backpack and laptop bag.
“Allow me,” he says.
Olivia hands them over far too quickly.
I step back, studying her. “Remember your clinical trial.”
She shoots me a look. “I am a serious researcher.”
“Mmm.”
The guest gestures for her to step in first, one hand hovering at her elbow as she climbs into the back seat.
Olivia turns to me one last time, eyes wide, color high in her cheeks. Then the door closes and the Rolls-Royce pulls away as smoothly as it arrived.
When I get back inside, Anna is at the breakfast table in her robe. Normally she notices me the second I walk in and starts talking. Even if she’d stayed in her room, she would’ve heard the panic downstairs and had something to say about it. Now, she doesn’t even look up.
I approach the table. Her hand moves too fast. She slides a folded sheet of paper toward the pocket of her robe.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Just paperwork.”
The way she moves it away from me tells me more than the paper itself.
“Let me see.”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
I step closer. The paper isn’t fully hidden. A logo sits at the top, not from any bank I know she uses. That alone is odd. Then my eyes drop to the line beneath it.
90-DAY PRE-FOR…
The rest is covered by her hand, but it doesn’t need to be.
“If it’s about the house, I do need to worry about it.”
“It isn’t.”
She reaches for her bag again, but I’m already there. I take the letter before she can tuck it away, and she lets go with a tight exhale.
It’s a certified mail.
90-DAY PRE-FORECLOSURE NOTICE.
The words settle into me like cold water.
Four payments past due.
Total arrears: $52,380.
Outstanding principal: $1,610,000.
I read it twice. The noise in my head disappears. Numbers take its place. I read it a third time to make sure my mind hasn’t invented it.
“You refinanced the house.” I stare at her. “Not just a property. It’s my home. Olivia’s home. My studio. My livelihood. Our house!”
“I am the legal owner,” she replies, lifting her chin.
I hold the notice between us. “You pulled one point six million dollars out of this property.”
“I invested it.”
The word falls between us with an air of accomplishment she hasn’t earned.
“In what?” I ask, keeping my voice level. I’m trying—God, I’m trying—to reason.
“It was a private opportunity.”
“With who?”
“People I trust.”
I let out a slow breath. “Anna. The monthly repayment on this refinance is over twelve thousand dollars. You are four months behind. The bank has already sent the ninety-day notice. Do you understand what that means?”
“I’m handling it.”
“With what money?”
She looks away, and that is when my patience begins to thin.
“How much is left?” I ask.
“It’s tied up.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“It’s temporarily frozen,” she reveals.
Frozen. The word people use when they don’t want to say gone.
“You drained Dad’s trust,” I say.
“I had access to it.”
“You had responsibility for it.”
“I was thinking about growth,” she snaps. “I’m not an old fool hoarding it in a savings account. It was digital. High-yield. It was meant to multiply what Edward left.”
“You gambled Dad’s legacy on crypto?”
“It was reputable.”
“Run by who?”
She hesitates. “A friend of a friend. He’s well connected.”
Connected to what? I want to ask. But I don’t. The answer doesn’t matter. The money is gone.
“And now we’re four months behind on a twelve-thousand-dollar mortgage,” I say, still fighting to keep the heat out of my voice. “Do you have anything left? Anything we can use to catch up?”
She doesn’t answer, just looks down.
I wait her out.
“If you’d chosen something more stable,” she says, “I wouldn’t have had to scramble to bring in more money. I was trying to take care of us, Helen.”
For a moment, I think I heard her wrong.
“You’re serious right now? You’re blaming me?”
“You don’t think ahead,” she goes on. “You really think that photography of yours is enough to carry us?”
My eyes flare. “Anna, I’m not the one who went batshit and gambled our house on crypto,” I say. “I’m not the one who drained every fund Dad left. And I’m not the one who signed a goddamn one-point-six-million-dollar refinance.”
Her composure breaks. “I was protecting our lifestyle.”
“You were protecting your ego.”
“This is not just your house. Olivia and I are Edward’s daughters. If you loved him the way you always claim, you wouldn’t have risked everything he built on some ‘trusted’ stranger with a digital coin.”
She flinches.
“I will not let Olivia’s education be collateral for your pride,” I continue. “She’s building something real. She will not come home to a foreclosure notice because you wanted to feel powerful.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Four months behind is not an overreaction. It is a countdown.”
She grabs her handbag, bristling. “I’ll fix it.”
“How?” I demand. “By calling the man who disappeared with your fund? By asking Victor to clean up your mess through me?”
Her silence answers for her.
“Where are you going?” I ask as she moves toward the door.
“Out.”
“I hope you’re looking for a job,” I say, my voice no longer restrained. “Or the person who convinced you to ‘invest.’ I don’t care which. But you are going to clean this up.”
The door closes behind her.
I let the tears come, furious tears. Then I wipe my face and breathe until the shaking stops. It takes me a moment to realize Alaska is sitting beside me.
“I’m okay, girl,” I say, resting a hand on her head.
Whatever this is, it stops with me. It does not reach Olivia. If money is what stands between this house and a court date, then money is what I will find.
I go down to my studio and look at the camera Liam gave me. My fingers rest against the body. “I’m sorry,” I quaver and place it in its original box.
Yes, I’ll make sacrifices. But Anna won’t walk away unscathed. I go back upstairs to her bedroom. If she could go through my space, if she could invite Victor to assess my closet as if I were inventory, then I can do the same.
I open her wardrobe and begin moving through it. Silk. Cashmere. Designer labels. And that grotesque thing.
The mink hangs in the center of the rail. I lift it, holding it away from me. “I should burn you,” I murmur.
But I need the money. So I fold it over my arm and think about where I can sell it. I’ve let her get away with a lot. Not this time.