“You will.”
Then I looked toward security.
“Please escort them out.”
That afternoon, Khloe texted.
Mom is hysterical because of you.
Then:
Brad is asking questions.
Then:
Maybe I should tell him why you’re really behaving this way.
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
I could tell Brad you’re obsessed with him. That you’re jealous because he chose me.
My stomach tightened.
Then:
Sign the car papers and I’ll tell him it was a misunderstanding.
I read the messages.
Blackmail over a Range Rover.
I blocked her.
Two days later, I sat across from Dr. Harrison Vale, a former neurosurgeon who now handled medical patents.
“The offer is fifteen million dollars.”
I remained silent.
“Potentially more if we negotiate royalties.”
“I want liquidity.”
He studied me.
“How quickly?”
“Immediately after closing.”
“That isn’t the most tax-efficient structure.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
I touched the fading bruise beneath my makeup.
“Because independence is worth paying tax on.”
He did not ask another question.
A week later, Khloe made a serious medication error.
I helped stabilize the patient.
Then she pulled me into a side room.
“You need to cover for me.”
“No.”
“Zora.”
“You gave one hundred units instead of ten.”
“I misread it.”
“Why?”
She looked away.
“The wedding planner kept texting.”
I stared at her.
“You were discussing centerpieces while administering medication.”
“It was an accident.”
“Then report it.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“If this goes into my file, Brad’s family will hear about it.”
Of course.
Not the patient.
Not the mistake.
Brad.
The image.
The wedding.
“You need to sign the chart,” she said.
“No.”
“You’re my sister.”
“No.”
She began explaining exactly what had happened.
How distracted she had been.
How she had guessed.
How she expected me to fix it.
I preserved the conversation.
Not to humiliate her.
Because for once, I was not going to make someone else’s mistake disappear.
Then came dinner at the Sterling estate.
My parents instructed me to dress modestly.
“Khloe needs to shine.”
Dad actually told me:
“It helps show the contrast.”
I wore an old gray dress.
Khloe wore cream silk.
Three-carat diamond.
Perfect hair.
Before we went inside, she whispered:
“Don’t embarrass me.”
Dinner began politely.
Then Mrs. Sterling asked Khloe about new melanoma immunotherapies.
Khloe froze.
Her answer had almost nothing to do with the question.
I tried to remain silent.
Then Mrs. Sterling mentioned PD-1 inhibitors.
I answered.