Page 11 of Porcelain Lies

The simple gesture of comfort breaks what’s left of my composure. I turn into his embrace, burying my face against his shoulder as quiet sobs shake my frame. I rest there for a moment, until I feel him stiffen.

“I’m going to have a word with our ‘friend,’” he mutters grimly.

“Nick, don’t!” I grab his arm as he turns, my fingers digging into the fabric of his suit. “I don’t want you causing trouble.”

“Let go, Stella.” His muscles tense under my grip. “Someone needs to teach that piece of—”

“No. I’ll handle it myself.” I yank him back, positioning myself between him and the exit. “I’m a big girl, Nick.”

Nick’s jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. “So, we just let him get away with it? Let him laugh about how he played you?”

“Lower your voice,” I plead, noticing Mrs. Abercrombie’s head turning our way. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“It’s never the time or place with you.” He tries to shake me off, but I hold firm. “Always worried about appearances, about what people will think—”

“Because I have responsibilities!” The words come out sharper than planned, drawing more stares. I force my voice down. “Unlike you, I can’t just blow up my life whenever I feel like it.”

A flash of hurt crosses his face, and I immediately regret the jab. But before I can apologize, Maria arrives.

“It’s time, Stella,” she says, glancing down at her watch. It’s a subtle nudge to get the show on the road. I should have been up on the podium by now.

“On my way.” I nod, then look back at my brother. “Just promise me you won’t do anything.” I fix him with a hard stare.

He deflates a little. “Fine. But I don’t like it.”

If he says anything more, I don’t hear it, because I’m already at the stairs to the stage.

I step up to the podium, adjusting the microphone with shaking fingers. The sea of expectant faces blurs before me until I blink hard, forcing myself to focus on the notecards in my hands.

“Good evening, distinguished guests.” My voice comes out clear and professional — a small miracle. “Thank you all for joining us tonight to support Children’s Hope Foundation.”

Nick hovers near the back of the room, his forehead creased with concern. I look away, channeling my energy into the familiar rhythm of the speech.

“Every child deserves a chance to dream big,” I continue, gesturing to the artwork displayed around us. “These pieces were created by children in our program — children fighting battles no one their age should face. Yet look at the joy, the hope, the vibrant life in each brushstroke.”

The words flow easier now as I describe specific cases — little Sarah who painted dolphins during her chemotherapy sessions, Marcus who discovered his talent for sculpture while recovering from heart surgery. I’ve practiced this speech countless times for other events, and muscle memory takes over.

“Your generosity tonight doesn’t just fund medical treatments. It gives these children something equally vital — a reason to smile, to create, to believe in tomorrow.”

My voice catches slightly on the word “believe,” and I see Nick shift uncomfortably. I power through, describing the foundation’s achievements this past year, our goals for expansion, the lives we’ve touched.

“Together, we can turn their darkest days into masterpieces of hope.”

Applause fills the room as I conclude. I manage a gracious smile, though exhaustion seeps into my bones. The emotional toll of the evening crashes over me as I step down from the podium, my professional mask slipping just slightly.

Nick takes a step forward, but I shake my head slightly. Not now. I can’t handle his sympathy, not when I’m barely holding myself together.

The donors rise for the silent auction portion of the evening, and I retreat to the edge of the stage, feeling drained but satisfied that at least this part of the night went according to plan.

I slip away from the crowd, finding refuge in a dim service corridor. The muffled sounds of the auction fade behind me as I lean against the cool wall, letting out a shaky breath.

“You’re thinking about them again, aren’t you?”Boyana’s voice echoes in my head.

“Mom and Dad?” I close my eyes. “How they kept secrets too?”

“And now here you go again. Always trusting the wrong people.”

“That’s not fair.” I wrap my arms around myself. “They were protecting us.”

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