I check the clock—five minutes until the Zoom with Tokyo, which is really just four execs in a boardroom, faking jet-lag and waiting for me to give them permission to print money.
I glance at the shelf, at the parade of faces and years and accidents, and feel the old sense of unease stir.
After all, is this really a good idea? There are two versions of the girl I know—the one I bought at the auction, soft and blonde and so utterly ripe with her big breasts and round ass; and the onein these photos, all edges and mischief with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. I want them to be the same girl, but I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing.
I leave the study door open on purpose, like a baited trap.
I’m halfway into a suit jacket when I hear the faint pad of feet from the master. Daisy walks through the main room, blonde hair like a golden stream, wearing a t-shirt that’s two sizes too big and nothing else. She sees me at the office door, smiles, then disappears down the hall to the kitchen.
I want to call out to her, tell her to come look, but I can’t. I have to pretend this isn’t a test.
Instead, I go to my desk in an adjoining room, open the laptop, and click into the video call. Four faces bloom to life, each more boring than the last.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I say, settling in. My voice is pure steel—years of public speaking, of making weak men feel like they’re in on the secret, even when the secret is nothing at all.
“Mr. McCarren,” says the senior partner, bowing from the waist even though he knows I hate the formality. “It is always a pleasure.”
I run the numbers, say the right words, and nod at the right slides. But my head is half in the next room, listening for any sign of Daisy. There’s a clang of dishes, the hiss of the espresso machine. I imagine her drifting through the penthouse, distracted and perfect, the way she moves when she thinks I’m not watching.
I hear her open the fridge, then close it too hard. I picture her standing there in the spill of light, maybe eating a piece of fruit, maybe just enjoying the sunlight, lost in thought.
I wonder if she’ll see the photos.
The call drones on—ROI, cross-market synergy, the word “innovation” used like a bludgeon. I say yes, I say no, I promise nothing. All the while, I keep an ear cocked toward the hallway.
Guilt simmers in my chest. I tell myself that this is for her own good, that if she remembers, we can finally talk about it. Maybe even move past it. But I know better. I want Daisy to see the photos so she’ll ask questions, but I also want her to forget forever, so I can keep her exactly as she is: blank, beautiful, and mine.
I can’t have both.
The call ends. I close the laptop and sit in the silence, not moving.
From the kitchen, I hear a soft, startled sound—a sharp intake of breath, the kind you make when you recognize someone you’ve never met. It’s followed by the slow, cautious footsteps of a girl who doesn’t trust her own curiosity.
I keep my eyes on the laptop, but my heart is pounding.
She’s coming this way.
Daisy stands in the doorway,half-hidden by the trim, arms folded across her chest like she’s cold, even though the thermostat is locked at seventy-two. I don’t look up. Instead, Islide a pen between my fingers, make a show of finishing some fake notes, and let her stare.
She enters quietly, steps careful, the way you do in a museum when you’re not sure what’s off limits. The study is small but deliberate—every item chosen, every angle calculated for effect. Daisy drifts to the shelf, eyes skimming the books, then lands on the first photo. She picks it up, tilting the glass to kill the glare, and for a long time she just stares, thumb tracing the curve of the metal frame.
I watch through the open doorway, every muscle rigid.
She glances at me, then back to the photo. “Is this you?” she asks, her voice soft.
I nod. “A long time ago.”
She studies it closer, squinting at the girl beside me. “Who’s the girl?” Daisy asks, careful.
“My stepsister,” I answer, keeping my tone flat.
There’s a pause. “You look so young,” she says, and there’s an ache in it I can’t parse. Is she jealous? Or just lonely for her own lost past?
I force a laugh. “Yeah, it was ages ago.”
She smiles, sets the picture down, and moves onto the one where she’s wearing the pink swimsuit with red bows. Daisy frowns, lips pursed, as if the images are a puzzle she can’t solve.
“Are you and your stepsister close?” she asks, quieter now.