Page 64 of Filthy Rich Temptation
Why didn’t I think to channel Taylor when I picked my outfit?
The place is so her – rich, curated, unapologetically exclusive. Deep charcoals, inky blues, warm-gold accents. Jazz floats through the air, low voices humming beneath it. Every detail, every guest, whispers money, class… legacy.
But our legacy is a council flat in Hackney with peeling walls, a pull-out bed to share, and heating by the meter. That’s how far my sister’s come. And I should’ve known better than to turn up like this.
My only saving grace? No one’s looking at me except the bartender. He clocks me, disappears, and returns seconds later with…
Taylor.
My heart lifts. My stomach drops.
She walks towards me, stilettos clicking like a metronome – precise, purposeful, poised to the bone. As ever, the total opposite of me.
She looks like her mum. Dark, effortless waves. Luminous skin. Hazel eyes that see too much and give little away.
Me? I’m all mine, or so they say. Fair hair, blue eyes, a little too rough, a little too open. Dad once said I looked like agrief-stricken fuck.I guess that was his poetic way of remembering both our mothers.
Why my anxiety brain chosenowto serve up that little gem, I’ve no idea. But as Taylor approaches, I’m reminded of everything she is, and everything she was to me.
Not just a half-sister.
But a mother.
An anchor.
My idol.
What I would’ve given for even a sliver of her grace and poise back then… or now.
She never needed money to look the part. But with it? She owns it. Louboutin heels. A black dress that moves like it was made for her. Salon-finish waves. Flawless make-up.
And a face I’ve missed more than words can say.
Yet as she nears, her pace slows. There’s a quiet tension in her jaw, a flicker of hesitation in her smile.
And just like that, I see it – the nerves beneath the surface, the crack in her veneer.
Maybe we’re not so different after all…
‘Hi,’ she says softly, stopping just a few feet away.
‘Hi.’
A beat passes. Two. And then something cracks. Suddenly, her arms are around me, pulling me into a hug so fierce and fast, I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or hold on tighter. So I do all three.
‘It’s really good to see you,’ I murmur.
‘I’m so glad you asked to meet,’ she says at the same time.
I pull back just enough to look up at her, and?—
‘Wait… are you crying?’ I blink. ‘You never cry.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She waves a manicured hand in front of her face. ‘I’ve got something in my eye.’
‘Inbotheyes?’
Her mouth quivers into a smile. ‘I’m allowed to be emotional.’
