Jillian leans forward, curiosity replacing the anger she felt earlier.
Jillian: "It's just... I don't understand, Celeste. Why all of that? All the beauty contests, all the attention... Wasn't it ever enough?"
Celeste's gaze hardens. She takes a deep breath before speaking, her voice a little more fragile than before.
Celeste: "You think it was easy? You think she made it easy? You don't know what it was like for me, Jillian. You don't know what it was like growing up in her shadow."
Jillian furrows her brow, confused. She wasn't sure what Celeste was implying. What shadow?
Celeste: "Mom forced me to learn things, to present myself a certain way. She made me study beauty, how to use it, how to make people look at me and want me. But compared to you, Jillian, I was never beautiful enough. Never. No matter what I did, I couldn't be you. I couldn't be perfect like you."
Jillian stares at her sister, taking in the words, trying to make sense of them. Celeste's pain is so raw now, so exposed, and Jillian realizes how much she's been missing. She hadn't seen it before—how much Celeste had struggled with their mother's obsession with image and status.
Jillian (softly): "You don't have to be perfect, Celeste. You're enough as you are."
Celeste laughs bitterly, the sound hollow.
Celeste: "You always say that, don't you? 'You're enough.' But it wasn't enough for her, was it? No matter how many awards I won, no matter how many prizes I received for being the most beautiful woman in Orwell, it was never enough. I had to be better. I had to be something I wasn't just to make her proud."
She leans back, running her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit she's had for years.
Celeste: "I was the 'perfect' daughter, Jillian. The one who followed all the rules, who did everything to make her happy. But you—you were the one she couldn't control. The one she never understood."
Jillian's heart twists at Celeste's words. She'd never known the depth of her sister's resentment, the way she had fought for her place in the family. All the while, Jillian had been caught in her own world of ambition and medical pursuits, unaware of the emotional battle Celeste had been fighting.
Jillian (quietly): "But I never asked for any of it... I never wanted to be 'perfect.'"
Celeste doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she picks up her wine glass, her fingers shaking slightly as she lifts it to her lips. Her eyes don't meet Jillian's—they remain fixed on the glass, staring into it like it might hold the answers to everything.
Celeste: "I know. But it's too late now. You're right, I did all that for her... and now I'm just... left here. A trophy on a shelf."
The words linger in the air. Jillian doesn't know how to respond. She wants to say something comforting, something that will make Celeste feel less alone, but she knows there's no simple answer to this.
The years of rivalry, of living in the same house with competing expectations, have shaped them both in ways Jillian is just beginning to understand.
As the last plates were cleared and the polite tension of the dinner still lingered in the air, Jillian stood up, collecting her bag from the side.
"I won't be staying here tonight," she said, her voice calm but firm. "I've already booked a room at the hotel nearby."
Harlond looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes. "Jillian, you don't have to—this is still your home."
She met his gaze without flinching. "It hasn't felt like that in a long time."
Celeste, who had been quietly sipping her wine, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Camilla gave a tight-lipped smile, eyes betraying nothing.
"I'll be back in the morning," Jillian added, slinging her coat over her arm. "Goodnight."
Without waiting for a response, she walked out, the soft click of her heels echoing in the hallway, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than any words.
The hotel room was quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Jillian slipped off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders finally relaxing. She reached for her phone and found herself dialing a familiar number.
It rang only once.
"Jillian, my dear!" her grandmother's voice came through, warm and a little sleepy. "Is everything alright?"
Jillian smiled faintly, curling her legs beneath her. "Yes, Grandma. I just… I'm in Orwell."
A pause. "Orwell? What for?"
She hesitated for a beat before answering. "Celeste. Her marriage is being arranged. Father asked me to come home."
A soft sigh came through the line. "And you said yes?"
"I didn't have much of a choice." Jillian glanced out the window, the city lights twinkling beyond the glass. "I didn't want to come, but I'm here."
Her grandmother hummed thoughtfully. "Well, whatever reasons brought you there, don't let them shake your heart, my girl. You're not the same Jillian they remember."
"I know." Her voice lowered. "I just wish it didn't feel so… distant."
"You've grown, Jillian. Let them see it. On your terms."
Jillian closed her eyes, letting the words settle like a balm over her tired mind. "Thanks, Grandma. I needed that."
After the call with her grandmother, Jillian took a long shower, letting the steam wash away the weight of the evening. She pulled on a fresh T-shirt, climbed into bed, and, for once, allowed herself to fall asleep without overthinking.
But morning came too soon.
Her phone vibrated incessantly on the nightstand. Groggy, Jillian reached for it, blinking at the screen.
Camilla Robbinson
She hesitated before answering.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Jillian," Camilla's voice was perfectly poised, as always. "We're having breakfast at home. Are you coming?"
Jillian sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I wasn't planning to."
A brief silence followed before Camilla said, "It would mean a lot to Celeste."
Jillian glanced at the time. 7:18 AM. Too early for diplomacy.
"I'll see what I can do," she said finally.
Camilla's tone didn't change. "We'll be expecting you." Then the call ended.
Jillian sighed and dropped the phone back onto the bed.
She stared at the ceiling, wondering how this trip had already begun to feel like a test.
Jillian stared at the screen for a moment longer, then opened her messages. Her fingers hovered briefly before typing:
"Good morning, Camilla. Thank you for the invitation, but I'll be skipping breakfast today. I need some time to myself."
She hit send without waiting to overthink.
After a few deep breaths, she climbed out of bed, tied her hair up in a loose bun, and opened the curtains. The view of Orwell was quiet and dignified—streets slowly stirring with morning life, golden light filtering through old trees.
She decided she wouldn't waste the day sitting around in thought.
After a quick bite from the hotel's café, Jillian tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat and set out on foot. Her steps took her past familiar streets, the bookstore she once spent hours in, the small bridge she used to cross on her way to school.
Everything looked the same—but she felt different.
Later, she stopped by a quiet garden in the heart of the city. She sat beneath a willow tree with her notebook in hand, scribbling notes for a potential new research idea, letting the peaceful surroundings ease her mind.
By noon, she felt lighter—almost human again.
As the sun dipped lower into the sky, she took a cab back to the hotel, her thoughts already shifting to the upcoming banquet. Whether she liked it or not, the family gathering loomed—and she knew it wouldn't be simple.