“Who is she?” I demand, louder than I meant.
Hunter blinks, once, twice. His face is stone.
“My stepsister,” he says. “Tara. I told you.”
The word hits me like a slap. I close my fingers around the frame, hard enough to crack the glass. My nails dig into the matting, pressing against the slick, perfect finish of a memory I’m supposed to have.
I don’t know what to say, so I say the first thing that comes to mind:
“She looks a lot like me.”
There’s a silence, then:
“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”
He’s not telling me something. I can tell by the way his eyes slide away, the way his jaw tightens.
A rush of anger flares, fast and hot. I stare daggers at him.
“But she’s more than your stepsister, isn’t she? This Tara person means more to you than that.”
Hunter’s face goes dead white. He opens his mouth, closes it.
I laugh, high and wild. “It’s bad, isn’t it? You know what this reminds me of? That Netflix documentary—the one about Jeffrey Epstein, the dude who groomed young girls and abused them. This woman isn’t your stepsister, is she? She’s someone else.”
“Daisy, stop,” he says, voice low.
“But am I wrong? Because this is sick. I mean, are you groomingmenow? Did you keep those photos here just to show off your perversions?” The words tumble out, cruel and hurried, but I can’t stop myself. The more I say, the more I tumble into treacherous depths, but I can’t stop.
He crosses the room in three strides, grabs the frame, and holds it between us. “That’s not what this is. I’ve never groomed anyone, and this girlismy stepsister, Tara.”
“Then tell me what’s going on,” I hiss with fear and anger in my eyes. “Because I can tell something’s off, Hunter. I want to know why I wake up every day and see your face before I even remember my own name. I want to know why I can’t stop thinking about you, about us, even though everything about this is so—” I choke, swallow the word “wrong.”
He looks at me, blue eyes cracked wide, and for a second I see something behind them—fear, maybe, or just grief.
He sets the photo down.
“You want the truth?” he says, his voice shaking.
I nod. I can’t breathe, but I nod.
He scrapes both hands through his hair, then rubs his palms over his face, as if he can wipe the years off in one go.
When he looks at me, he’s not the CEO anymore. He’s just a man.
“That girl in the photo,” he says, “isyou, Daisy. Your real name is Tara Monroe.You’remy stepsister.”
The world folds in on itself, the room tilting, then righting.
I stare at him, mouth open, waiting for the punchline.
He doesn’t blink.
“That’s not possible,” I say, the words dry and papery.
But it is. I look at the photo again. I see the freckles, the chipped tooth, the hair that refuses to stay in place. The girl in the frame is me, from years ago, before I ever called myself Daisy.
I step back, hit the edge of the desk, and almost fall.