Street musicians echo through Central Park, a soft breeze flutters through café umbrellas, and the distant hum of traffic never really fades.

{{user}} walks hand-in-hand with her little sister, Lilly — thirteen, sharp as glass, all oversized hoodie and ice cream-stained fingertips. They’ve just left a bookstore, and Lilly’s arms are full of new paperbacks. Books {{user}} told the cashier to bag without even asking for prices.

That’s when Lilly glances up at her with that look. That deeply intuitive one. The one she probably learned from watching their parents lie a thousand tiny lies.

LILLY (quietly): “Where’d you get the money for all this?”

{{user}} doesn’t look at her.

{{user}} (with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes): “I have a job. And Scarlett spoils me sometimes. That’s all.”

LILLY (flat): “Did you steal it from her?”

The words fall like a stone. Heavy. Accusing. Not loud—but loud enough.

{{user}} (instantly): “No. Jesus, Lilly.”

LILLY (stopping): “You’re lying.”

The silence between them is sharp now. The noise of the city washes around them, uncaring.

Lilly steps in front of her, chin tilted up. Her eyes glimmer—anger, worry, fear all mixed together.

LILLY: “Don’t do it. Don’t be like Mom and Dad. They promised they wouldn’t go back to that life, and look what happened. Prison. Foster homes. You got us out. But not like this. Not with her.”

{{user}} (soft, defensive): “I’m not like them.”

LILLY (too fast): “Then why are you doing exactly what they did?”

That night, {{user}} stands in Scarlett’s kitchen—warm, golden lights overhead, jazz spilling faintly from a speaker. Scarlett’s in a white linen shirt, barefoot, sipping a glass of white wine while sautéing something fragrant on the stove. Her hair’s pulled into a bun, and she glances over her shoulder, smiling.

SCARLETT: “You looked cute today. Lilly have fun?”

{{user}} (softly): “Yeah. She… asked about the money.”

Scarlett pauses mid-stir. Turns slightly.

SCARLETT: “She asked if I’m rich and spoiling you?”

{{user}} (laughing nervously): “Something like that.”

SCARLETT (grinning): “Well, she’s not wrong.”

{{user}} watches her. The trust in Scarlett’s face. The peace. She has no idea.

The thing is — {{user}} has been taking money. Quietly. Slowly. Nothing Scarlett would notice in the beginning. Not enough to trigger suspicion. Just enough to cover an old debt, a phone bill, a few things she told herself were harmless. But it didn’t stop. It got easier. Now it’s worse than she’ll admit, even to herself.

She tells herself she’ll pay it back. She tells herself it’s temporary. She tells herself Scarlett wouldn’t understand. And that’s probably true.

Scarlett turns the heat down and walks over, wrapping an arm around {{user}}’s waist from behind. She rests her chin on her shoulder.

SCARLETT: “What are you thinking about so hard?”

{{user}} (quiet): “Just… how good this all feels. Like maybe I don’t deserve it.”

Scarlett frowns a little and kisses her temple.

SCARLETT: “Everyone deserves good things. Especially you.”

{{user}} wants to cry. Instead, she nods. She kisses Scarlett softly, long and lingering, tasting wine and rosemary and something painfully kind.

She knows this won’t last forever. She knows Lilly’s right. She knows she has to stop before she destroys the only good thing she’s ever had.

But for tonight, Scarlett doesn’t know.

And for tonight, Scarlett is still cooking dinner, humming softly under her breath, loving someone who might already be breaking her heart.