Page 10 of Billion Dollar Vow

“She never does. But I could tell. She kept holding this one canvas like she couldn’t decide if she was proud of it or heartbroken.”

A silence settles in again, this time heavier. I glance at the drink in front of me, then back up at my brothers.

“She deserves more than a basement,” I say quietly.

The Warne Gallery flashes in my mind again. Its high ceilings, white walls, the way the light spills in during the afternoons. Mom used to take me when I was a kid. I still remember the way her eyes lit up when she talked about it. Not like she was simply describing a building, but something bigger. She had plans. And damn it, I want to make them a reality.

Chapter 4

Karley

Laterthatnight,Istep into the house I share with my brother, dragging my feet as I head toward the kitchen. Everything about it screams Declan—glass, chrome, and cold, gray tones that look like they were pulled straight from a catalog. I let my bag slide from my shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The sound barely registers as I freeze in the doorway, my face tightening at the sight in front of me. Declan and Armani making out on the sofa, completely oblivious to my presence. A flush rises to my cheeks as I stand there, torn between slipping away and making my presence known. Clearing my throat, I say, “Hey.”

They pull apart and turn to face me. Armani’s face is beet red. “Hey.”

“How was work?” Declan asks, seeming completely unfazed as he straightens his shirt.

I shrug. “Alright.” Moving to the cupboard, I grab the pasta and a can of tomatoes. As I pull out a pot, my brother makes hisway over to the kitchen and settles onto a stool at the counter. Armani hovers near the doorway, tucking her hair behind her ear as she glances at her phone.

“How was your day?” I ask, steering the conversation away from me.

“Busy. I got home five minutes before you,” he says, eyeing the bag of pasta.

“Want me to make you some dinner?” I offer, immediately regretting the words as they leave my mouth. Why do I always do this? Cook for him, clean up after him, when he’s capable of doing it himself.

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” I pour double the amount, making sure there’s enough for him and Armani.

“I noticed you haven’t started packing,” he says.

Which is code for: he’s been snooping. One thing I hate about living with him is the lack of privacy. I desperately need my own space.Just a few more weeks of this, I remind myself.

“I don’t have much stuff. It won’t take long to pack.”

I can feel his eyes burning a hole in my head, and I already know the question before he asks, because he wants me to change my mind. “Have you decided if you’ll come to Florida with me?”

“You make it sound like you’re going alone. Armani’s going to be there. You don’t need me,” I say, filling the pot with water and turning on the burner. He makes no effort to get up and help, and I feel the pulse in my temple start to pound. Part of me wants to escape apartment living, move somewhere warm with beaches. But Florida means living under my brother’s roof again, watching him and Armani build their perfect life, while I hang around like a third wheel. Here, at least, I have independence.

“I don’t understand why you’d want to stay here,” he says.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the counter. “I like it here. Amber and Wren are here.”

“But don’t you want a fresh start?” His eyebrows lift slightly. He waves his hand, as if Amber and Wren are friends, not the lifeline parents they’ve been for me.

I uncross my arms and grab a pan, then reach for the tomatoes, garlic, onion, and a basil leaf. My childhood home is in another state, and New York is filled with great memories. “No. Why would I need a fresh start?”

“You’ve been here and unhappy for years.”

I laugh, but it turns into a sigh. “I’m not unhappy, and you know that. What’s really going on?”

He scratches his temple before clasping his hands on the counter, his eyes firmly on me. The smell of sauce fills the air, making my stomach growl again. “I can’t watch over you from Florida,” he admits.

A familiar mix of irritation and affection washes over me. Part of me is touched by his concern, but the bigger part hates being treated like a helpless child in need of supervision.

So that’s it. “I don’t need you to. I’m twenty-two.”

“I know...”

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