3:00 AM.
The sound of a police siren wailed in the distance, closer than it ever would be in the Upper East Side. Aria lay on the wooden slats of the bunk bed. Her back was screaming. The lack of support was aggravating the old injury, sending spasms of sharp pain radiating up her spine. She reached into her bag, dry-swallowing a high-strength anti-inflammatory she kept for emergencies.
She shifted. The bed frame let out a screech that sounded like a dying animal.
Above her, Jenny groaned in her sleep.
Aria froze. She couldn't stay here. She needed to move.
She slid off the bed, her feet silent on the floorboards. She crept into the living room.
The moonlight filtered through the grime on the windows, casting long, distorted shadows.
Someone was sitting by the balcony door.
Leo.
He was hugging his knees to his chest, the glow of a phone screen illuminating his tear-streaked face.
He didn't hear her approach. He was too focused on the screen.
Aria stopped a few feet away. She could see the image on his phone. It was Vanessa's Instagram story.
A picture of a porcelain teacup on a silver tray, overlooking the Carlisle rose garden. Caption: Home sweet home. So blessed.
Leo wiped his nose on his sleeve. "She's happy," he whispered, his voice thick. "She forgot us already."
Aria sat down on the floor opposite him. She didn't try to touch him.
"Look at the cup, Leo."
Leo jumped, nearly dropping the phone. He glared at her. "What?"
"Look at the cup in the picture. Is there steam?"
Leo frowned. He zoomed in. "No."
"Is there tea in it?"
It looked empty.
"It's a prop," Aria said softly. "Eleanor Carlisle makes her stage those photos. That cup has been sitting on that table for three years. No one drinks from it."
Leo stared at her. "How do you know?"
"I lived in that museum for seventeen years."
Leo looked back at the photo. The glamour suddenly looked cold. Staged.
"She... she never mentioned us?" he asked, the vulnerability in his voice breaking Aria's heart.
Aria hesitated. She could tell him the truth-that Vanessa called them "the help" behind their backs. That Vanessa laughed about their poverty to her rich friends.
But looking at Leo's shattered face, she couldn't do it.
"She keeps a photo of you guys," Aria lied. "Tucked in the frame of her mirror. Where Eleanor can't see it."
Leo let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He buried his face in his knees and cried. Not the angry crying from before, but a release. A grieving.
Toby appeared from the hallway, rubbing his eyes. He saw Leo crying and waddled over. He held out the sticky remains of his candy apple.
"Eat, Leo," he said sleepily. "Sugar helps."
Aria watched the three of them sitting in the moonlight-the fake heiress, the angry brother, the innocent child.
The medication was starting to kick in, dulling the fire in her back to a manageable ember.
She stood up and picked Leo up. He was heavy, but to her, he felt light. He was asleep before she even got him to the couch.
She went back to her room. She picked up her phone.
An email notification from Nebula Studios Board of Directors: [Acquisition proposal for Carlisle Media Subsidiary is ready for your review.]
Aria stared at the screen. The hunger in her eyes wasn't for food. It was for justice.
