Page 10 of Blurred Lines

Flora's response is immediate, her tone icy. "And I forget how insensitive idiots can be. But there you go, reminding me."

Alec laughs, a sound as unpleasant as nails on a chalkboard. "Cute. Really. But at least when I open my mouth, I don't just spew rubbish."

That's when Flora does it. Without a word, she stands, her chair scraping loudly against the floor, and before anyone can react, she slaps Alec across the face. The sound echoes in the room, a sharp crack that marks the line we've all crossed.

Silence descends, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of Alec's chair tipping backward as he stands, his hand to his cheek, his eyes wide with shock and anger.

4

EMILY

After the slap echoes like a gunshot in the grand dining hall of our father's mansion, the tension snaps.

I grab Flora's arm, yanking her out of the room with a force that suggests I might have been hitting the gym more than just for those glamorous plus-size model shoots. "Let's go," I hiss, dragging her towards our childhood sanctuary.

Once we're safely barricaded in our room, the only sound is our heavy breathing and the distant murmur of offended voices below. I collapse onto my bed, the familiar scent of lavender and dust wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. Flora paces like a caged lioness, her eyes still shooting daggers that could easily pierce through the floorboards and into Alec's heart.

"Can you believe him?" she spits out, finally stopping her pacing to glare at me, expecting me to share in her righteous fury.

I can't help it; I laugh. It's a short, sharp burst of amusement that feels oddly out of place in the gloom of our situation. "I can't believe you slapped him. What are you? A noir detective in a vintage film?"

Flora flops down beside me, her anger deflating slightly. "Well, someone had to shut him up. His mouth runs like a faucet."

I remember the cake Mom sent over earlier, a peace offering in the form of decadent chocolate layers and velvety buttercream frosting. I retrieve it from its box, and Flora's eyes light up with a mixture of glee and hunger.

"Do we still have the emergency stash of utensils in that drawer?" I ask, pointing to an oak drawer in the corner.

"First thing I asked Albert," Flora says, standing up to retrieve a set of spoons. "He said he's kept them washed and polished."

As we dig in, the rich taste of chocolate melting on our tongues, I can't help but wish some of the sadness away. "Mom's cakes always taste like missed opportunities," I muse, scooping up another spoonful.

Flora chuckles, her spoon paused mid-air. "Yeah, like she's trying to bake her way out of absentee parenting."

Silence falls between us as Flora and I perch on my bed.

"So, Dad …" Flora begins, as we finish eating. "It's kinda weird, huh? It feels like he just vanished overnight."

I nod, the weight of the situation pressing down. "Yeah. And with Verona and Alec hovering like vultures, it feels even more surreal."

Flora's detective instincts kick in, her brow furrowing. "There's something off about it all. Verona and Alec … they're too calm. Like they knew this was coming."

I sigh, setting my spoon down. "Flora, let's not dive into conspiracy theories. We have enough grief without adding a mystery into the mix."

She leans back, studying me with those keen detective eyes of hers. "You don't think it's odd?"

"Maybe," I admit. "But what can we do? Accuse them without proof? We need to focus on the vineyard, and … and moving forward."

Flora nods, though I can tell her mind is already spinning, piecing together clues like a jigsaw puzzle. "Alright, for now. But I'm keeping my eye on them."

The night grows deeper, and the comfort of the cake settles in our stomachs, a sweet balm to the sharp edges of our reality.

"Thanks for the cake rescue," Flora murmurs, her voice softening.

I smile, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Always. Cake now, conspiracies later."

Appetites more or less sated, we change for bed and spend the rest of the night wondering what the funeral will be like.

Morning, with all of its impending doom, comes far too quickly. Flora and I dress in black. As we descend into the living room, the sight that greets us is, frankly, less than appropriate for a funeral.

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