Page 22 of Stolen Vows

Behind her, dark-blue water stretches to the horizon, the sleek white railing of a yacht visible on either side of her.

“Frankie, don’t you look cozy.” Florence drawls, a glass of champagne in one hand.

I snort, rolling to my side and propping my phone on the charging stand on the side table next to my bed. “I am, thanks.”

She pushes her off one shoulder and rolls her eyes. “I was being sarcastic.”

I force a grin. “I know. Where are you right now?”

She winks, her nose pink from a day spent in the sun, I’m sure. “On a yacht.”

I quirk a brow. “Who’s yacht?”

Florence hums, taking a slow sip of champagne. “You know, you could be here with me, living the good life, instead of doing . . . whatever you’re doing now.”

Her tone is light, teasing, but the words sting like a tiny, precise cut. I laugh, brushing it off, but I feel it. I feel every single cut.

There’s a phrase for it—death by a thousand cuts. I wonder if there’s truth to that. If every small remark, every sideways glance, every moment I don’t fit into my mother’s world is another slice across my skin.

But Avalon Falls? Opening Fiction & Folklore? Living in my own apartment?

They feel like Band-Aids. Like opportunities to give those little cuts space and time to heal.

I take a slow sip of my tea, keeping my voice light. “I have a bookstore now.”

Florence lifts her chin, a smirk playing at the corners of her perfectly painted pout. “You know, Frankie, when you do things like choose books over European vacations, I wonder how we ever shared a womb.”

I force some brightness into my tone. “Right, well, I’m hanging up now.”

“No, no—wait, I have news!” she shouts on a laugh.

I sigh, already bracing myself. When it comes to Florence, her news could be literally anything.

“Okay, tell me your news.”

She moves the phone closer to her face, like she’s leaning in to share a secret.

Her eyes glimmer with mischief, her smirk stretching wider.

“Okay, ready? I’m coming to visit you!”

A tangle of emotions tightens in my chest. When it comes to Florence, it’s hard to tell what her motivations are sometimes—if they’re even hers at all. More than half the time, they’re our mother’s.

I don’t know what it would feel like to have Florence—or either of our brothers—show up for me, just because theywantedto. It’s a foreign concept. But I imagine it would feel nice to have that kind of unquestioned loyalty. That kind of love.

I swallow past the thought, shifting my position on my bed a little and aiming for nonchalance. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m not even opening for a couple of weeks.”

Florence pulls the phone back slightly, the yacht’s soft lights catching on her cheekbones in a way I’m sure was by design. Her brows lift, offended.

“Why don’t I hear ‘Thank you so much, Flora. I can’t wait to see you, Flora.’ Like, what thehell, Frankie?”

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. It’s a tangled mess, but I didn’t have the energy to wash it after unpacking all day.

“Of course, you’re welcome to come anytime. I just meant—don’t you want to wait until it’s actually open to see it? You know, appreciate the full vision and all that?”

Florence arches a perfectly shaped brow, lips pressing into a flat, unimpressed line. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll wait a few weeks.”

Someone calls her name offscreen, drawing her attention away. She barely glances back before saying, “Okay, gotta go. Talk soon, Frankie. Kisses!”

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