Page 53 of Stolen Vows

She lifts her shoulder in a faux shrug. “I’m just saying, how long do you really think you can do this?”

I inhale through my nose. “I’ve got a year.” It’s a reminder for her as much as it is for me.

Déjà vu creeps over me like a vine, stretching wide to cover my entire body. We’ve been here before, her and I. It never ends particularly well for either one of us, and yet, here we are. In the same dance.

“I love you, Frankie. But I think you need to be realistic about your future.” She shakes her head, glancing around the store. “And I just don’t see it here, in this little bookstore in the middle of nowhere.”

“Jesus, Flora, don’t hold back.”

She lifts a single brow, spearing me with a droll look. “Just because you don’t like what I have to say doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

I bite the inside of my cheek at the same time Romeo presses against the back of my legs. “Noneof that is true. What’s going on?” She’s always been vocal about things, but usually she gives me a little more grace.

She sighs, like everything is such a put out. “What’s going onis your future is with Giovanni, back home in Winthrop Harbor. Not whatever this is.” Her nose scrunches like she’s smelling something mildly offensive, but then she schools her features into a placid smile as she looks at me.

I stare at her, blinking a couple times. It’s all I can do. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

She saunters over to the counter. “It’s time to stop playing make-believe, Frankie. This little bookshop is great and all, but it’s not real life. It’s a distraction. An escape.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Mom showed me your books from the first month. You’re not going to earn out in time. I’m sorry.”

My chest feels hot, like that one time I fell asleep with a heating pad on. My sinuses tingle, signaling imminent tears, and I have to blink several times to clear the moisture gathering in my eyes.

“She told you that, or you actually saw the numbers?” My gaze flies between her eyes, searching for the little girl who used to hold my hand during thunderstorms at night. Desperately looking for a scrap of humanity from the one person who’s supposed to stand by me forever.

She clears her throat and looks away, breaking our connection. “She sent them to me, and I thought I’d come for a visit. Try to get you to see reason. Before it’s too late.”

The breath leaves my lungs in one sharp exhale. She’s seen my numbers. Which means Mom has seen them too. Which means they’re already looking for ways to make sure I fail.

I clear my throat and roll my shoulders back. “Well, I appreciate your concern, but it’s misplaced. The bookstore—mybookstore—is doing just fine. My projections are right in line with where I need to be.”

My heart races as Florence’s words sink in, anxiety spiking through my veins. I know the numbers she’s talking about, the impossible profit margin my parents set when they agreed to let me open the bookstore. I still don’t even understand how they were able to weasel their way into my inheritance from Aunt Miriam.

It’s a nearly unreachable sales goal to hit in my first year, a number so high it might as well be in the stratosphere.

But I refuse to let their doubt and disapproval shake my resolve. I’ve poured my heart and soul into this bookstore. I’ve spent countless late nights poring over inventory spreadsheets, vendor contracts, and marketing plans. And I’m determined to reach every goal.

She adjusts the strap of her purse, looking anywhere but at me. “Just come back home, Frankie. Marry Giovanni. I’m sure he’ll build you a library as big as this entire store. Mom will get off your back, and then you can live your life however you want.”

I take a slow breath, gripping the edge of the counter to stop my hands from trembling. “And how’s that working out for you? You married the man Mom and Dad picked and you, and you’re miserable.”

Her perfect posture falters, lips parting with a soft exhale. But she recovers just as quickly, lifting her chin. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? That’s what you’re asking of me. To marry some man I don’t love, someone I barely even know, just because our parents said so. Like are you even hearing yourself right now?”

She crosses her arms, her expression suddenly unreadable. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear her, she says, “Grow up, Francesca, and stop being so dramatic. Arthur leaves me to do as I please most of the time. Sometimes I even get a few months in row without . . .”

A flicker of something close to sympathy stirs in my chest. I swallow hard. “Without?”

She swipes her tongue over her teeth, shifting her weight. And then she drops it. The thing Iknowhas been eating at her for years. “Without performing our monthly duties.”

My stomach twists. I stare at her, at the barely there mask of indifference she’s trying to maintain. My sister, who walked in so effortlessly confident, so sure of herself, now looks like a completely different version of herself. Scared, resentful,trapped.

Something heavy lodges in my throat. “Florence.”

She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Don’t,” she snaps. “I don’t want your pity, Francesca.”

And just like that. Her mask is back in place. If I would’ve been looking away, I would’ve missed it. The glimpse of the real Florence.

I hesitate. Intellectually, I know she’s hurting. She’s been hurting. But she also came here to push me into the same life she resents.

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