Page 3 of Stolen Vows

I clear my throat and keep my feet moving, one in front of the other. “And how am I a brat because I want to go to college?”

“This isn’tcollege.Thisis a breeding ground for infidelity and bad decisions and a hundred other ways of ruining your life.” She flings her hand out, toward the house we’re approaching.

A low chuckle slips out before I can stop it. “C’mon, Flora, it’s just a party.”

“No, don’t use my nickname to undermine my point.Thisis not a not a party. A party is sipping champagne on Giovanni’s yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean,” she deadpans. “Speaking of which, if you’re looking to get laid, you should go to him. Not these . . .boys.” She waves her hand in the air like she’s dismissing everyone at the house we’re approaching.

“You mean like you did with Conrad?” I keep my tone bright.

There’s a beat of silence, but I don’t fill it with an apology for bringing up her betrothed. She doesn’t waste an opportunity to bring up Giovanni every time she can, so why shouldn’t I return the favor?

The lawn stretches out before us, a sea of bodies and red solo cups. Music thumps from the house, the bass vibrating through the ground and up into my bones. Strings of white lights haphazardly hang through the trees, casting a dreamy glow over the whole scene. It looks exactly like every movie I’ve seen about the quintessential college party.

“Giovanni would be a lot nicer than Conrad, that’s for sure. And you could do worse than the Bandinis. Properties in Lake Como, a yacht in Monaco, and an art collection worth more than most people make in a lifetime. You’d never have to worry about anything. Private jets, couture fittings, summers in Capri.” She sighs, a wistful sort of huff.

Which is ironic because she could have all of those things. Conrad Hargrove has just as much wealth as Giovanni’s family does.

“I don’t need all that, and anyway, I have my own money.”

She snorts. “No, Frankie, you have mom and dad’s money. You don’t getyourmoney until you’re married.”

I don’t need the reminder. I’ve read the trust agreements so many times I have them memorized. But thinking about the clauses, conditions, and carefully worded loopholes my family built into it—ensuring I follow their blueprint before I ever touch a cent—makes my stomach turn.

“You know, you really didn’t have to come here. I’ve been just fine on my own for a year.”

It’s a lie. Not the boldest one I’ve ever told, but bold enough that I’m sure she’s going to call me on it.

Being on my own has been eye-opening in ways I never expected. I didn’t realize how much of my life had been curated, controlled, and softened at the edges until I stepped outside of it. I’d never had to budget a grocery trip or figure out how to pay a bill on my own. I’d never had to navigate a city without a driver waiting at the curb.

And I liked it. Even when it was hard, I liked it.

“Come on, sis. I know math isn’t your strong suit, but you’ve been here for nine months, nottwelve.”

I don’t skip a beat at her chastising tone. I love my sister, but she never misses an opportunity to point out our differences—making sure the world knows that while we might look the same, we’re not.

Another one of those twin things, I guess.

I stopped caring about competing with my sister a long, long time ago. If I ever even did. Sometimes, I feel like I didn’t start breathing until I left Winthrop Harbor.

“I know exactly how long I’ve been here,” I say, my voice calm. “They said I could take a year, so I’m going to take the full year. And that means no more talk about mom and dad, marriages, or trusts. I’m going to this party now. You can come with me or you can go home.” I nod toward the house in front of us, where people spill out the front door—two girls laughing, heads tossed back, arms wrapped around each other.

Jealousy curls around my ankles like fog rolling off the lake on early spring mornings. Sometimes I think Florence and I were close like that once, but when I search the recess of my mind, I can’t recall the memories.

“As if I would let you go to a party alone.” She scoffs, storming to stand next to me. “Please. Don’t make me laugh, Frankie. They would kill me if I let you go to a house party like this alone.” She flicks her wrist, sending her perfectly styled blonde waves cascading over her shoulder in a move I know is practiced but appears effortless.

“What are you going to tell them?” I pause at the bottom of the wraparound porch, reaching out to grasp her wrist. I hate the thread of unease that slithers through me, winding around my ribcage like a ribbon.

She looks down her nose at me, her face so similar to the one I see in the mirror every day and yet so different.

So much . . .better.

Where my top lip is too full, hers is perfectly proportionate. My eyebrows are cousins; hers are twins. A spray of freckles—light brown and cherry red—dapple my cheeks, nose, and chest, while her skin is flawless, smooth, and clear.

It’s our eyes that give us away.

Hers are luminescent amber with threads of golden whisky, and mine are deep, unending brown. Unremarkable in every way. Or so our mother has told me.Often.

“I’m not going to risk Bash’s wrath and let you go in there alone. But I’m also not into self-sabotage either. That’s more of King’s thing.” She huffs, flipping her wrist to tangle her hand with mine. Tugging me forward, like she always has.

---