Rachel again: “Seriously? You’re not even going to answer my call? What kind of sister are you?”

She wasn’t as bad as Rachel made her sound. She’d done a lot to help her sister. The way it had worked out wasn’t her fault.

Unable to listen to any more from Rachel, she deleted the rest. They were all the same—and simply too hard to hear.

Unwilling to return any calls, she sent a few text messages to those who’d wished her well and was just thanking Christian and Johnny when she received a message from Maxi.

Are you and Seth getting along okay? You’re still at the house, right? How’s Kiki?

Seth and I are doing fine. Kiki is great. Hope you’re enjoying yourself, she wrote back. She thought that would be it, but a few minutes later, she got another text from him.

That was a little too easy, Tia. What’s the real story? You hanging in there?

Trying, she messaged back.

You have more to offer the world than a pretty face.

Except that her career and her dreams depended on her face. But what was the point of insisting it was the end of the world? It was only the end of the world for her. For everyone else, life went on as usual.

She sent him an emoji blowing a kiss so that he’d let it go and wouldn’t press her anymore. Then, because she didn’t want to think about all the messages from her sister she’d just deleted carte blanche, she went onto the internet and searched Seth Turner’s name.

Various pictures popped up. As she scrolled through them, she couldn’t help but admire his high cheekbones, strong chin and pretty eyes. He came off as dark and brooding even with his hair short and combed off his face, but he was definitely attractive.

His bio said he was an American sculptor and painter who’d been discovered at a young age, that his work was popular among critics and art collectors alike because he was able to convey so much with so little—something she’d noticed herself. His first painting to sell for over a million dollars was called Brothers and depicted the love/hate relationship that could so often exist between siblings.

As she stared at it, two figures—who could’ve been male or female—seemed to be trying to cling to each other even as something unseen was tearing them apart.

She tried to find a picture of the screaming woman that was hanging across from the couch to see if it was, indeed, Seth’s work and wasn’t surprised to find that it was. In Her Head had sold for a quarter of a million dollars.

“Wow,” she said on a long exhale. Seth was rich. Really rich. If he made that much off each piece, he had to be.