My Fiancé Gave My Grandmother’s House to My Sister

My phone buzzed during dinner. I was sitting alone at the kitchen island, picking at takeout pasta I'd ordered an hour ago and forgotten to eat. The apartment was quiet. Gideon had texted earlier saying he'd be late. Again.

Celeste's name flashed across the screen.

"Pick up," the text said. "NOW."

I answered. "What's wrong?"

"Get to the rooftop bar at the Mercer Hotel." Her voice was tight. "Right now, Anahi. I'm serious."

"Celeste, I'm tired. I have rehearsal at six tomorrow—"

"He's here. With her. You need to see this."

My stomach dropped. I set down my fork. "See what?"

"Just come. Please."

I grabbed my jacket and keys. The subway ride felt endless. I kept telling myself it was nothing. That Celeste was overreacting. That there was a reasonable explanation.

The elevator to the rooftop bar opened onto a crowd of people pressed against the railing, phones raised. Music thumped from speakers. I pushed through, scanning faces.

Then I looked up.

Across the Manhattan skyline, drones hung in formation. Hundreds of them. Tiny points of light spelling out a name in letters twenty feet tall.

NYLAH.

My breath caught.

The crowd murmured and pointed. Someone near me laughed and said, "That's so romantic." A woman with a cocktail sighed. "I wish someone would do that for me."

I forced myself to look away from the sky. To scan the rooftop.

I found him by the far railing.

Gideon stood with his back to the city, jacket draped over someone's shoulders. Nylah leaned into him, her face tucked against his chest. His hand rested on her back, slow circles, the way you'd soothe a frightened child.

Or someone you loved.

He was saying something to her. She nodded. He pulled her closer.

I stood there at the edge of the crowd. My hands were cold. My chest felt tight.

Celeste appeared at my elbow. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't want you to hear about it from someone else."

I couldn't answer.

The drones shifted. The letters rearranged into a heart.

Someone in the crowd whistled.

Gideon looked up then. His eyes swept the rooftop—and landed on me.

He didn't flinch. Didn't let go of Nylah. He just stared at me for a long moment, then said something to her and crossed the space between us.

"Anahi." His voice was flat. "What are you doing here?"

I blinked. "Celeste called me."

He glanced past me at Celeste, then back. His jaw tightened. "You didn't need to come."

"I—" I stopped. Swallowed. "What is this?"

"Exposure therapy." He said it like it was obvious. Like I was slow for asking. "Nylah's androphobia is getting worse. Her therapist suggested incremental public exposure in a controlled environment. I thought a gesture like this would help her associate positive emotions with being seen."

I stared at him. "You chartered drones."

"She needed something big enough to override the fear response." He crossed his arms. "It's working. She's been out here for twenty minutes without a panic attack."

"You spelled her name across the sky."

"Anahi." His voice dropped. Irritation bled through. "Don't make this about you."

The words hit like a slap.

"I'm not—"

"She almost died for me." He stepped closer. His voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge in it. "She saved my life when we were kids. She has spent years struggling because of trauma she endured that night. The least I can do—the *least*—is help her heal. If that makes you uncomfortable, that's something you need to work through."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Behind him, Nylah was watching us. She looked small under his jacket. Fragile.

She met my eyes and smiled.

I turned and walked to the elevator. Celeste called after me, but I didn't stop. I rode down forty floors in silence. Walked to the subway. Rode home.

The apartment was dark when I got back. I didn't turn on the lights.

I sat on the couch in my jacket and pulled out my phone. Opened the calendar. The spring showcase was six weeks away. *Swan Lake.* White Swan. The role I'd trained a year for. The role I'd bled for.

I thought about the way Gideon had looked at me on that rooftop. The irritation. The certainty.

I thought about Nylah's smile.

I set the phone down and pressed my fingertips together. An old habit. Something I did when I needed to hold myself still.

Then I stood, walked to the corner of the living room, and ran through my variation in the dark. Thirty-two fouettés. Perfectly centered. Mechanical.

When I finished, my legs were shaking.

I didn't hear Gideon come home that night. I didn't wait up.