Only Me to Count On

The scent hit me the moment I opened the front door—Chanel No. 5, Serena's signature perfume, thick and cloying in the air like expensive smoke. The sound of laughter drifted from the living room, bright and musical, the kind of sound that had been absent from this house for months.

I slipped off my shoes and padded down the hallway, still wearing the simple black dress I'd changed into at the cathedral. The living room was packed with people—neighbors, family friends, even some of Mother's bridge club members—all crowded around the cream leather sectional where Serena held court like a returning princess.

She looked radiant. Paris had been good to her. Her dark hair fell in perfect waves over one shoulder, and her skin had that luminous quality that came from expensive facials and European skincare routines. She wore a silk blouse the color of champagne, paired with tailored black trousers that probably cost more than my monthly salary.

"My darling girl," Mother said, clutching Serena's manicured hands in both of hers. Tears glistened in her eyes as she gazed at her stepdaughter with pure adoration. "You've been through so much in Paris. All that hard work, all those late nights at the atelier."

Serena's laugh was like wind chimes. "Oh, Victoria, it wasn't that bad. Though I did lose ten pounds from all the stress." She turned slightly, giving everyone a better view of her enviably slim figure. "But it was worth it. Professor Dubois said my final collection was 'extraordinaire.'"

Richard beamed with paternal pride, his chest puffed out like he'd personally designed every garment. "Tell them about the internship offer, sweetheart."

"Well," Serena said, her voice taking on that modest tone that somehow made her achievements sound even more impressive, "Maison Margiela offered me a position in their couture department. Starting salary is... well, let's just say it's more than generous."

The room erupted in congratulations. Mrs. Patterson from next door actually clapped. I stood frozen in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, watching this celebration unfold like I was viewing it through glass. No one had noticed me yet. No one ever did when Serena was around.

Derek appeared at my elbow, his presence as sudden and unwelcome as a cold draft. My half-brother had inherited Richard's sharp features and Mother's calculating eyes, a combination that had served him well in his corporate climb.

"Serena's hungry," he said without preamble, not bothering with a greeting. His voice carried that expectant tone I knew so well. "She wants that cheese casserole you make—the one with extra chili peppers. She said she missed your cooking while she was away."

I blinked at him. "She wants me to cook? Now?"

"She just got back from a fourteen-hour flight, Harper." Derek's tone suggested I was being unreasonable. "The least you could do is make her favorite meal. You know how much she loves your casserole."

I glanced back at the living room, where Serena was now showing off photos on her phone—probably pictures of her glamorous Parisian life, her internship at prestigious fashion houses, her apartment overlooking the Seine. Not one person in that room had asked about my day. Not one person had mentioned the wedding that should have happened three hours ago.

Of course they hadn't. They probably didn't even remember.

"Fine," I said quietly. "I'll make the casserole."

Derek was already walking away, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "Make sure you use the good cheese. The imported stuff."

The kitchen felt like a refuge after the suffocating warmth of the living room celebration. I moved through the familiar motions—boiling pasta, grating cheese, dicing jalapeños—my hands working automatically while my mind remained numb. The repetitive actions were soothing in a way, like meditation.

Forty-five minutes later, I carried the steaming casserole dish into the dining room, where everyone had gathered around the mahogany table. Serena sat at the head, naturally, with Mother on her right and Richard on her left. The good china was out—the Wedgwood set that only appeared for special occasions.

"Oh, Harper!" Serena's voice was honey-sweet as I set the dish down. "This smells absolutely divine. You're such a treasure."

She reached out as if to touch my hand, then stopped, her perfectly shaped eyebrows drawing together in concern. "Oh my goodness, what happened to your hands?"

I looked down at my fingers, at the angry red welts that had appeared across my knuckles and wrists. The rash had been getting worse lately, spreading up my forearms like a slow-burning fire.

"It's nothing," I said, trying to pull my sleeves down to cover the irritation.

"That's not nothing, sweetie." Serena's voice carried just the right note of sisterly concern. "Did you use my dish soap again? I've told you before—your skin is just too sensitive for those harsh chemicals. You really should stick to the gentle, hypoallergenic brands."

The room fell silent except for the soft clink of silverware against china. Everyone was looking at my hands now, at the evidence of my sensitivity, my weakness, my inability to handle even basic household products without breaking out in hives.

"I'll be more careful," I murmured, backing toward the kitchen.

But as I reached the doorway, something caught my eye. There, on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker, sat a familiar white box. My wedding cake—the three-tiered vanilla masterpiece that should have been cut and shared with two hundred guests. It looked smaller now, somehow diminished, sitting alone on the granite countertop like a forgotten prop from a play that had been canceled.

Next to it was the black velvet box that held our wedding rings. Nathan's and mine. The rings we should have exchanged three hours ago.

But there was something else now. A small piece of paper, folded neatly and placed on top of the ring box. My hands shook as I unfolded it.

The handwriting was Derek's—I'd recognize his sharp, angular script anywhere.

*For Serena and Nathan—Congratulations!*

The words swam before my eyes. The kitchen tilted sideways, and I gripped the counter to keep from falling. My blood felt like it had turned to ice water in my veins, sluggish and cold.

Congratulations. For Serena and Nathan.

I heard footsteps behind me and turned to find Derek standing in the kitchen doorway, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at the note in my hands, then at my face, and his smirk widened.

"You left your diary on your bed," he said casually, like he was commenting on the weather. "I saw those words you wrote—'Final Ultimatum.' Really, Harper? What are you planning to do, run away from home? Become some kind of homeless person living under a bridge?"

He laughed, a sound devoid of warmth or affection. "Don't be ridiculous. You're twenty-six years old, not sixteen. Stop being so dramatic and go make sure everyone has enough to eat."

With that, he turned and walked back toward the dining room, leaving me alone with the wedding cake, the unused rings, and the note that had just shattered what remained of my world.

In the distance, I could hear Serena's laughter mixing with Nathan's voice, low and intimate, as if they were sharing secrets meant only for each other.