THE STERLING INHERITANCE

**POV: Celeste**

I knew I was late. I also knew showing up in paint-stained jeans and a leather jacket would make Mother's eye twitch. Both facts brought me a petty satisfaction as I kicked my motorcycle into gear and roared toward the estate.

Traffic was lighter than expected, which meant I'd only be fifteen minutes late instead of thirty. Still enough to make an entrance, not enough to seem like I'd forgotten entirely.

The Ashford estate appeared through the trees, all pretentious stone and perfectly trimmed hedges. I pulled up next to Vivienne's Audi-of course she was already here, probably early-and killed the engine.

Through the dining room windows, I could see them all seated. Mother in her pearls. Father with his scotch. Vivienne looking immaculate as always. Isla practically invisible at the end of the table.

I checked my reflection in my phone screen. Eyeliner slightly smudged, hair wild from the helmet, paint-cadmium red-under my fingernails. Perfect.

The front door was unlocked. It always was on family dinner nights, like they were daring me to actually show up.

"Sorry I'm late!" I announced, pushing into the dining room with maximum dramatic flair.

Mother's lips pressed into that thin line I knew so well. "Celeste. You couldn't dress appropriately?"

"I came straight from the gallery." I dropped into my chair and immediately reached for the wine Father was pouring. "We're installing a new exhibition-very controversial piece about corporate greed and environmental destruction. The artist is brilliant but completely unhinged."

"How nice," Mother said in that tone that meant the opposite.

"The art world is so exhausting," I continued, taking a long drink. God, this was good wine. Trust Vivienne to bring the expensive stuff. "Everyone has an opinion, everyone's offended by something. Last week someone called my curatorial choices 'deliberately provocative.' Like that's a bad thing."

"Well, you do try to shock people," Vivienne said dryly, cutting her salmon with surgical precision.

"That's the point of art. It should make you uncomfortable."

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. "Not all art needs to be confrontational."

"Says the woman who probably has a Monet print in her office."

"Renoir, actually."

Of course it was. Vivienne would choose something safe and expensive and utterly predictable.

We fell into our familiar argument-me defending art as provocation, her advocating for aesthetic beauty, Mother trying to redirect toward something more appropriate. It was the same conversation we'd had a hundred times, and I knew my lines by heart.

The thing was, I didn't actually disagree with Vivienne. Not entirely. But agreeing would mean giving up my role, and what would I be if I wasn't the difficult middle daughter?

"Isla, you're being quiet," I said, suddenly noticing our youngest sister pushing food around her plate.

She looked up like a startled deer. "I'm just listening."

"You always just listen. Don't you have opinions?"

"I-"

"Celeste, don't badger your sister," Mother interrupted. "Some people are naturally more reserved."

I opened my mouth to argue-Isla wasn't reserved, she was erased-but Father cut in about some sculpture at his club and the moment passed.

Isla went back to her salmon. I went back to my wine.

The truth was, these dinners exhausted me. Playing the rebel took energy. Making sure every comment was just shocking enough to get attention but not enough to get disowned. Walking that tightrope between disappointing them and desperately wanting them to notice me.

"Your gallery," Father said, not quite looking at me. "Is it at least profitable?"

There it was. The question underneath all their polite inquiries. Are you wasting your life? Are you embarrassing us?

"We're doing well," I said, which was technically true if you ignored the months I'd had to borrow money from my trust fund to make rent.

"Well," he repeated, unconvinced.

"Actually," I said, the lie forming before I'd fully thought it through, "I'm curating an exclusive gala next month. Very high-profile donors. Billionaires, tech moguls, old money. The kind of people who buy Basquiat at auction."

Mother's attention sharpened. "Really?"

"Invitation only. We're showcasing emerging artists alongside established names. It's going to be the art event of the season."

This was maybe thirty percent true. I had been planning something for next month. I had a few wealthy clients. But "art event of the season" was generous, and "billionaires" was optimistic.

But Mother was looking at me with something other than disappointment, and I couldn't stop now.

"We're expecting Dominic Cross," I added, pulling a name I'd seen in the society pages. "His foundation does a lot with the arts. He's been very interested in our work."

Complete fabrication. I'd never spoken to Dominic Cross. I'd sent his foundation a generic sponsorship request three months ago and gotten a form letter rejection.

"Dominic Cross?" Vivienne's voice was strange. "You're working with him?"

"Well, his people. You know how it is with billionaires-layers of assistants and managers."

"That's quite impressive, Celeste," Father said, and I hated how much those words meant to me. How I'd just lied to get them.

"When is this gala?" Mother asked.

"Mid-October. I'll send you details." I'd have to actually make this happen now. Somehow. "It should be quite the spectacle."

"Do try to keep it tasteful," Mother said, but she was smiling. Actually smiling at me.

I wanted to throw my wine glass at the wall. I wanted to scream that I shouldn't have to lie about billionaire benefactors to earn a smile. I wanted to ask why Vivienne got approval for being exactly what they wanted while I had to perform rebellion just to be remembered.

Instead, I took another drink and changed the subject to some mutual acquaintance's scandalous divorce.

The rest of dinner blurred. Isla excused herself at some point-probably hiding in the bathroom like she always did when things got too much. Vivienne's phone kept buzzing. Mother went on about some charity committee.

I played my part. Provocative comments. Dramatic gestures. The wild child who refused to be tamed.

By the time I left, my face hurt from smiling.

I sat on my motorcycle in the driveway, helmet in my lap, staring up at the estate. Lights glowed warmly in every window, but the house had never felt less like home.

My phone buzzed. A text from my gallery assistant: *Installation is a disaster. Sculptor won't compromise on placement. Call me.*

And another from my landlord: *Rent is late again.*

I deleted both without responding.

Instead, I opened my browser and searched "Dominic Cross philanthropic interests art."

If I'd just promised my parents a gala with billionaire attendance, I'd better figure out how to deliver one.