“I’m leaving the party.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Chloe, it’s your eighteenth birthday.”
“Then maybe I’m finally old enough to decide who deserves my time.”
The call ended before I could answer.
I looked toward Leo.
For years, I had assumed Chloe would become another version of Eleanor.
Maybe I had been wrong.
Maybe she’d simply been another daughter struggling to survive beneath the same impossible expectations.
Two hours later, the elevator doors opened at the far end of the intensive care hallway.
Chloe stepped out wearing a pale silver evening gown and white satin shoes.
Her carefully styled hair had partly collapsed, and mascara streaked both cheeks.
She stopped when she saw the machines surrounding Leo.
One hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, God.”
I stood.
She hurried toward me and wrapped her arms around my waist.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.
