Chapter 3: Party Crashers, Family Scars, and a Birthday Dare

I didn’t see Carter for a whole week. He vanished.

Not a single sighting, not even in the background of someone else’s story. It was like he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.

He didn’t post where he was on Instagram, either. Suspense.

Usually, he was all over social media—brunches, parties, boat rides on Lake Michigan. Now, radio silence. The suspense was killing me.

But after I sold the flowers, I made a pure profit of $1,200! Jackpot.

I stared at the stack of cash, barely believing it was real. I treated myself to a real dinner—pizza, not ramen—for the first time in weeks.

If I budget carefully, that’ll last me a while. Nerd alert.

I made a spreadsheet, dividing it up for rent, groceries, and a little emergency fund. For once, I felt almost secure.

That night, just after I finished my bubble tea shift, I saw an unread message. Plot twist.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I wiped down the counter. I almost dropped the mop when I saw his name.

Carter sent me an address: “Starts at 7 tomorrow night.” Classic.

No hello, no explanation—just the address. Classic Carter. My heart skipped a beat anyway.

I shot up from my bed in shock. This can’t be real.

I nearly knocked over my laptop. Was this real? Was I dreaming? I pinched myself just to be sure.

No way—he’s actually inviting me? Panic time.

I did a little happy dance, then immediately started to panic. What was I supposed to wear? What if it was a prank?

[There are 168 hours in a week. Carter opened his phone 325 times, clicked on Savannah’s chat 217 times.]

[His eyes lingered on: ‘You’ve added AAA Don’t Lose Your Temper, Only Make Money. Now you can start chatting.’]

[Inner monologue: Didn’t she say she likes me? Why hasn’t she messaged me once?]

[After sending the address, he breathes a sigh of relief: I’m not being proactive, just giving her a chance to see me. After all, she loves me so much, she must have missed me like crazy this week.]

[Haha, I’m dying—he’s the one who can’t sleep, right?]

I could almost see Carter pacing his room, checking his phone every five minutes. The thought made me smile.

But I didn’t laugh. Comment-section girls, you don’t get it. Money first.

This wasn’t just about a party—it was about survival. If I played my cards right, I could turn this into another payday.

This totally threw off my plans. Just my luck.

I’d already mapped out my evening—work the party as a server, pocket some tips, maybe snag a party favor or two. Now, everything was up in the air.

I already knew where his birthday party was.

Word travels fast in our circles. If something big was happening, someone always knew.

A friend of mine was working as a server there. She had a date, so I was going to cover her shift.

We’d swapped shifts before—she owed me big time. I was counting on that extra cash.

Now Carter invited me.

Suddenly, I was a guest, not staff. The rules had changed, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

Not only did I lose the shift, now I’d have to spend my own money!

I groaned, flopping back onto my bed. This was not how I’d planned to spend my Saturday night.

As a guest, how am I supposed to score leftovers!

No sneaking snacks from the kitchen, no grabbing extra desserts. Now I had to play it cool, maybe even bring a gift. The horror.

So stressful! Couldn’t catch a break.

I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I should just bail. But then I remembered the party favors. There was still hope.

The comment section must have seen this and tried to comfort me:

[Sis, there are party favors at Carter’s birthday.]

[Heard they’re always expensive—you can resell them on eBay!]

[Last year he gave out limited edition figures! Super valuable.]

My eyes lit up. Game on.

I sat up straight, hope rekindled. If I played my cards right, I could walk away richer than before.

I started getting ready as soon as I woke up the next day.

I laid out my best jeans and a clean white tee, then stared at my closet, wishing for something fancier. No luck. Figures.

The leftover roses from before were already dried.

They smelled faintly sweet, a little brittle around the edges. I gathered them up, brainstorming gift ideas.

I bought some flour and made rose shortbread.

Grandma’s recipe, simple and sweet. The kitchen filled with the scent of baking bread and flowers. It felt like home, just for a moment.

I also bought a book and used the extra flowers as bookmarks.

A little touch of me in every page. I wrapped it up with a ribbon, hoping it looked more thoughtful than cheap.

Including packaging, the total cost was $12. Bargain.

I counted out the cash, double-checking my math. Not bad for a homemade gift.

Not bad.

I tucked the pastries and book into a paper bag, adding a little handwritten note: “Hope your year is as sweet as these.”

I set out, excited. Let’s do this.

The city was buzzing, cars honking, people rushing everywhere. I hopped on the L, clutching my gift bag tight, heart pounding with nerves and anticipation.

At the hotel entrance, I was stopped.

A security guard in a crisp suit blocked my path. “Invitation?” he asked, eyebrow raised. I froze, realizing my mistake.

Damn Carter, he didn’t give me an invitation!

I fumbled for my phone, ready to text him. My palms were sweaty, and I could feel people behind me getting impatient.

I was about to message him when Sierra walked up beside me.

She glided up like she owned the place, her heels clicking on the marble. I could smell her perfume before I even saw her.

She wore a pale apricot dress with a delicate hairpin in her hair.

Her hair was styled in loose waves, makeup flawless. She looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine.

I recognized the brand—it wasn’t even that fancy, but it cost over $300. Not my world.

I’d seen it on Instagram, modeled by girls who never had to check a price tag. It was understated, but screamed money to anyone who knew.

Just standing there, she looked like a white swan.

Elegant, untouchable. I felt like a duckling in comparison, awkward and out of place.

Compared to me in a white T-shirt and jeans.

I glanced down at my sneakers, wishing I’d at least worn something with a heel. Too late now.

Pretty tragic.

I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. If there was a prize for most mismatched siblings, we’d win, hands down.

Sierra glanced at me sideways, her disdain obvious. “What? You want to sneak into Carter’s birthday party too?”

Her voice was sharp, dripping with contempt. She didn’t even bother to lower her voice, making sure everyone in earshot could hear.

“Give it up, you’re not even good enough to pick up crumbs.”

She looked me up and down, nose wrinkling. I clenched my fists, biting back a retort.

[Really want to smack Sierra—Savannah is her sister, how can she be so cruel?]

[It’s all because their parents are biased. Sierra gets all the designer brands, treated like a princess. Our girl only gets $80 a month, like a charity case.]

[Enough, my heart aches for Savannah!]

The imaginary support group was back, full of righteous anger. It made me feel a little better, knowing I wasn’t alone.

Actually, there’s nothing to feel sorry about. No use dwelling.

I’d made my peace with it a long time ago. Pity never paid the bills, and I’d learned to stand on my own two feet.

I’ve lived like this for years.

Ever since I was a kid, I’d known not to expect much from family. It was just easier that way.

When I was six, both my parents lost their jobs, the family hit hard times, and they sent me to live with my grandma out in rural Illinois.

Grandma’s house was small, but it was warm. She taught me how to bake, how to sew, how to make do with what we had. I missed my parents, but I learned to be independent.

I only saw them once a year.

Christmas, sometimes Thanksgiving. I’d bring homemade gifts, but Sierra always had better ones. Eventually, I stopped trying.

Later, when things got better, they still didn’t plan to bring me back.

I overheard them once, saying it was just easier with one kid. It hurt, but I pretended not to care.

It wasn’t until I got into the top high school in the city that they remembered they had another daughter.

Suddenly, I was useful again—a bragging point for their holiday letters. I played along, keeping my head down.

They brought me home.

But home wasn’t what I remembered. It was just a place to sleep, not a place to belong.

Funny thing is, there wasn’t even a room for me.

They’d remodeled since I left. Every inch of space was accounted for—except for me.

Three bedrooms and a living room.

Parents in the master, Sierra in the second, and the study cleared out for her dance practice.

The third bedroom was now a closet, filled with Sierra’s costumes and trophies. I was an afterthought.

A single bed on the balcony was my spot. Not exactly homey.

It was cold in winter, hot in summer, and noisy all the time. I learned to sleep with headphones in, blocking out the world.

Luckily, I lived at school for three years of high school, barely went home.

The dorms were cramped, but at least I had a door I could close. I made friends, studied hard, and counted the days until graduation.

They didn’t care about me, didn’t care what I did. When I got into University of Chicago, it was my teacher who called them—they didn’t even know.

I still remember the look on their faces—surprised, but not proud. Like I’d pulled off a magic trick they didn’t quite understand.

That day, Sierra cried all night.

She accused me of stealing her thunder, of trying to ruin her life. I let her cry. I was used to it by then.

She said I was copying her, choosing her university just to bother her.

She made it sound like I was stalking her, like I couldn’t possibly have ambitions of my own. I let the words roll off me, refusing to let them stick.

My parents laid into me, said I didn’t discuss my choices with them.

They said I was selfish, that I should’ve asked permission. I bit my tongue, knowing nothing I said would matter.

Said I was stubborn.

Maybe I was. But stubbornness was all I had left.

Said if I was so capable, I should support myself from now on.

So I did. I packed my bags and left, not looking back.

I didn’t say anything, just took my only suitcase and went back to the country.

Grandma welcomed me with open arms, no questions asked. For the first time in months, I felt safe.

At that time, the local community center was doing livestreams to help farmers sell produce and needed assistants.

I jumped in, learning on the fly. I got good at pitching apples, potatoes, whatever was in season. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid.

I helped out for two months, saved up enough for tuition.

Every dollar felt like a victory. When the acceptance letter came, I cried—just a little.

Grandma was upset for me, called and yelled at them.

She didn’t hold back, her voice sharp as ever. I listened from the kitchen, grateful someone was on my side.

As a result, my mom started sending me $80 a month when school started.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. I stretched it as far as I could, making every penny count.

She said confidently, “Sierra said $80 is enough. You two are the same, so don’t go complaining to your grandma again!” Whatever.

I wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t funny. I nodded, keeping my head down.

Later, I found out $80 was Sierra’s living expenses too, but my mom gave her an extra $300 every month as pocket money. Figures. I stopped expecting fairness a long time ago. Lesson learned.

I never went back again.

Chicago became my home, for better or worse. I learned to survive, to hustle, to make my own luck.

Worked part-time to support myself, and did just fine.

I became an expert at stretching a dollar, at finding opportunity where others saw nothing. I was proud of that.

So I never let Sierra walk all over me. I turned around and snapped back, “You’ve got a piece of spinach stuck in your teeth.” Petty? Maybe.

I said it loud enough for the security guard to hear. Sierra’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with horror.

“Stay away from me, you reek of desperation.” Let her stew.

I took a step back, arms crossed. Let her stew in it. I wasn’t going to be her punching bag anymore.

Sierra instantly shut up.

Her cheeks flushed, lips pressed into a thin line. She looked like she wanted to scream, but couldn’t risk the scene.

Her face went from pink to red to purple.

I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

[Savannah: How to make a beauty blush in one minute.]

[Hahaha, that got me.]

[Learned it—I’m using this on the annoying drama queen in my dorm.]

[Now that’s got some flavor.]

I grinned to myself, feeling a little lighter. Sometimes, the only way to win is to play their game better than they do.

A lot of people came to the birthday party. Money everywhere.

The lobby was packed—guys in designer suits, girls in cocktail dresses, laughter echoing off the marble walls. The air buzzed with excitement and the scent of expensive perfume.

Someone behind had already recognized Sierra.

I heard whispers—her name, my name, questions about whether we were related. I kept my head down, letting the rumors swirl.

Then, when they clocked my face—identical to hers, just like Carter had—people rubbed their eyes.

A few people did double-takes, some even nudged their friends. I was used to it by now.

“Please tell me I’m seeing double.”

A guy in a navy blazer whispered, looking genuinely freaked out. I smirked, enjoying the confusion.

“I told you we need more sleep—now we’re seeing double.”

His friend elbowed him, rolling her eyes. The tension in the air was almost funny.

I stepped aside to let them pass first. Pick your battles.

No point in making a scene. I had bigger things to worry about.

Sierra lifted her chin proudly and walked up to a guy with slicked-back hair. “Jackson, I’ll go in with you.”

Her voice was syrupy sweet, all fake charm. I rolled my eyes, watching the drama unfold.

The guy named Jackson was handing over his invitation. He turned his head. “You don’t have an invitation, do you?”

His tone was cold, eyes sharp. Sierra froze, caught off guard.

Sierra froze.

For a split second, she looked almost vulnerable. Then the mask slipped back into place.

A few guys behind exchanged glances, ready to watch the drama.

I could see them grinning, phones out, ready to record if things got messy.

Jackson’s expression went cold. “Even if you did, I still wouldn’t want to go in with you.”

Ouch. The crowd let out a collective gasp. Sierra’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t say a word.

[Jackson! I swear, you speak for me!]

[Jackson ‘zero tolerance’ King: Don’t try to get close.]

[Jackson only cares about gaming, not pretty girls. Doesn’t fall for it.]

[Laughed so hard—so Sierra really doesn’t have an invitation?]

I bit back a laugh, enjoying the rare moment of someone else putting Sierra in her place. Finally.

I quietly watched the comment stream, then looked down.

My phone buzzed again—Carter. My heart skipped a beat.

Three minutes ago, Carter sent a message: “Forgot something. Are you here?”

I typed back quickly, thumbs flying. "Downstairs."

I sent it, then glanced around, hoping to spot him before Sierra did.

“Okay, I’ll come down.”

Relief washed over me. I tucked my phone away, ready to face whatever came next.

[Wow, you might as well announce you’re coming to pick me up on the public screen.]

[Didn’t give our girl an invitation just so he could pick her up himself—Carter ‘scheming boy’ Voss, no wonder you have a girlfriend.]

I grinned, nerves settling. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

As everyone else was heading in, Sierra’s face was getting harder to keep up.

Her smile was slipping, her eyes darting around. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

Suddenly, her eyes lit up and she waved. “Carter! I’m here!” Here we go.

Her voice rose unconsciously, desperate to get his attention. The crowd turned, watching the showdown unfold.

[Wait, what? Did Carter really invite Sierra?]

[Sorry, I can’t ship this anymore—sis, get away from the jerk and the fake!]

[Hold up! Don’t jump to conclusions—see what Carter does!]

The imaginary comment section was buzzing, anticipation building. I held my breath, waiting to see what Carter would do next.