Rejecting Ryan

I stood in the corner of our Manhattan penthouse, my camera hanging from my neck like armor. Through its lens, the world became manageable—distant, framed, controlled. I raised it now, focusing on Ryan across the room, laughing with his investment banker friends, champagne flute in hand. The birthday boy in his element, golden and untouchable.

Click.

I captured him mid-laugh, head thrown back, revealing the strong line of his jaw. Even after seven years of living under the same roof, the sight of him still made my heart contract painfully.

"Quite the photographer, aren't you, Grace?"

I lowered my camera to find Eleanor, our housekeeper, beside me. Her eyes, kind and knowing, had witnessed too much in this house.

"Just a hobby," I murmured, fingers automatically reaching for the folded medical report in my pocket. Terminal lung cancer. Less than three months to live. The words felt surreal, like they belonged to someone else's story.

"He looks happy," Eleanor said, following my gaze back to Ryan.

"He is." I forced a smile. "Victoria makes him happy."

As if summoned by her name, Victoria Hayes materialized from the crowd, gliding toward Ryan in a crimson dress that clung to her perfect figure. She wrapped herself around him possessively, marking her territory. His fiancée. The woman he had chosen.

Not his stepsister who had foolishly confessed her love on her eighteenth birthday, only to be coldly rejected.

I turned away, moving through the party like a ghost. The sealed medical report crinkled in my pocket with each step, a constant reminder of my deadline. Three months. It seemed fitting somehow—I'd spent years loving someone I couldn't have, and now I would die before I had to watch him marry someone else.

"Grace! There you are."

Victoria's voice, honey-sweet with underlying venom, stopped me. She stood before me holding a delicate crystal plate with an artfully arranged dessert.

"I brought you something." Her smile was dazzling, practiced. "A peace offering. I know things have been... tense between us."

I stared at the beautifully plated dessert—a chocolate mousse topped with crushed nuts. My throat tightened instinctively. Victoria knew about my severe nut allergy; everyone in the family did.

"That's... thoughtful of you," I said carefully.

Victoria's eyes narrowed slightly. "Won't you try it? I asked the chef to make it especially for you."

I glanced around. Ryan was watching us from across the room, his expression unreadable. Walter, my father, was deep in conversation with Ryan's mother, oblivious as always to my existence. No one was paying attention to this small drama unfolding in the corner.

I should refuse. Walk away. But seven years of trying to belong in this family had conditioned me to avoid conflict at all costs.

"Of course," I said, taking the plate. "Thank you."

Victoria's smile widened as I raised the spoon to my lips. The first bite was rich, decadent—and immediately wrong. My tongue began to tingle, then burn. My throat constricted as panic flooded my system.

"Is