Page 8 of Broken Deal

She lets out a soft laugh. “Yes. Stop worrying about me.”

Funny. I don’t think I will ever stop. The only reason I don’t live closer to home is becauseVogue Elitepays enough, allowing me to cover all her living expenses, and make sure she lives a stress-free life. The last thing I want is to see her go back to the way she used to be. I love my mother, I truly do. She’s extremely sweet, and it’s not her fault she had a hard life. I know she hates depending on me, but I will never stop caring for her.

“I’m calling you for a reason.” She sighs. “Your sister, uh, called me again.”

I stop dead in my tracks, almost bumping into someone as my heart rate picks to a dangerously fast pace. Biting my bottom lip, I try to control the involuntary reaction I get every time my sister is mentioned.

Just count backward, Sophia.

10, 9, 8…

Why is she calling Mom? She also called this past weekend, but Mom had told me she didn’t pick up. It didn’t ease my stress any less, though. I ended up sitting on a sidewalk in downtown Chicago, crying my eyes out with the uncertainty and anxiety of it all.

7, 6, 5…

What sort of trouble did she get herself into now?

4, 3, 2, 1…

How am I going to clean this mess? How can I make it go away? Think, Sophia.Think.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I ask, “Did she say what she wanted?”

“Only wanted to see how I was doing.”

“Right,” I answer, trying to keep my voice even.

Whenever Amelia starts lurking around Mom like a vulture, I know she wants something. And it’s usually money. She knows how to play me well by now. She reminds me of our deadbeat father. A sadistic, selfish man who thrived on the suffering of others. But there was one target he loved inflicting pain on more than any other—Mom.

I start walking again, in quicker steps this time as I glance at my watch. “Listen, Mom, I have to go but if she calls you again, promise me you’ll tell me?” I stress.

“Yes. I will. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I reply before hanging up. “God help me,” I murmur to myself as I drop my phone into my purse and gaze atVogue Elite’stowering building, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.

Nausea settles in the pit of my stomach at the thought of my sister trying to reenter our lives. She briefly reappeared in my life a year ago, because she had a huge fight with her on-and-off boyfriend for the past three years, Miles. I stupidly let her stay with me, and everything was going fine.Then we went out one night, and when I woke up the next morning, she was gone, along with a few of my more expensive clothing items. The ones I worked my ass off to have. I’m not materialistic by any means, and things are replaceable. But when you live your whole life scrapping for money, you learn to appreciate things. Become attached to them. And I really miss my fucking Louboutins.

My breakfast is threatening to come out, and the nervous sweats are already here. I can’t afford to be all sweaty and disgusting for this meeting. Glancing at my watch, I have about ten minutes before I need to meet with Max and this mysterious person.

I drop my purse and lunch box in my cubicle and quickly walk to the restroom and lock myself in it, resting my forehead against the cold, dark wood door. I’m spiraling. This is what I do when Amelia reappears. I go into panic mode. She knows how to play the game, because she knows damn well I don’t want anything stressing out Mom.

I laugh out loud as I turn around to take a look in the mirror. Tears are threatening to spill, so I reach for the paper towel dispenser and grab one, soaking up the tears before they ruin my makeup. Another laugh bubbles out of me, like the ridiculous person I am. It’s impossible for me not to laugh when I’m on the verge of a breakdown. I’m all too aware it’s insane, but it’s something I’ve done ever since I was a kid. Even when the sadness wants to blow over, my coping mechanism tries to take over. Always with the laughter. Like a damn clown.

The worst part of this situation is that I’m self-aware she takes advantage of me, yet I keep letting her. It’s like I’m a kid all over again, having to be the mother and take care of her. It was fine when we were kids. After all, Mom was barely present when our father died—I never understoodwhy, but I’ve always been too afraid to ask her. The day he died was ironically the best day of my life. It sounds crude, and like I’m the worst person to walk this Earth, but I have enough trauma baggage to back up these claims.

When he died, someone had to take care of Mom and Amelia, so I shouldered the responsibility. It was my cross to bear, and I carried it. But Amelia is an adult now, and to this day, she still hasn’t grown up.

I can’t deal with this now.

Or ever. Don’t deal with it at all, Sophia. Ignore her.

Except, I can’t, because if I don’t deal with the problem now, she will involve Mom somehow, and that’s the last thing I need. It pisses me off how selfish my sister is. I know she was little when our father died, but there’s no way she has forgotten everything we went through with him. I always tried my best to take the screaming, the punching, and the name-calling, but I wasn’t perfect. She witnessed enough.

I walk out of the restroom and go back to my cubicle to grab my phone and physical planner. With Max, I always have to document everything. The man changes his mind more than not, and somehow, he manages to make it my fault. I’ve been down this roadmanytimes.

Any other journalist would beecstaticto meet with the editor in chief and get to work closely with the person who’s supposed to lead us and inspire us. Except, he’s anything but a leader. Being a good employee under Max’s leadership is a curse. One I’ve been carrying for far too long. I enjoy the job in itself. The research, interviewing, editing, and of course, the writing. If being an author wasn’t my dream, becoming an editor in chief would be a close second. The reason I hate my job right now has nothing to do with my responsibilities and everything to do with my boss.

Taking a deep breath, I plaster a fake smile on my lips, like I always do, and stride toward his office as I mentally prepare myself. I softly knock on the door as I’m opening it. Walking in, I’m met with my editor with an exciting look in his eyes.

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