Olivia shook her head.
“Mara is already at the venue.”
“Then we'll bring it.”
“How?”
“We stabilize the cut.”
“With what?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You taught me not to hide structural damage.”
Diane’s mouth tightened.
She had.
Before marrying Michael Mercer, Diane spent almost twenty years working in theatrical costume departments. She had started as a stitcher in Chicago, moved into costume supervision, then left full-time theater after Brooke was born.
She knew exactly why Olivia was panicking.
She also knew enough to recognize that a clean repair in under two hours was impossible.
Brooke looked toward the scissors.
“Can we stop acting like I murdered somebody?”
Olivia turned on her.
“Get out.”
Brooke laughed.
“It's my mom’s house too.”
“It is Dad’s house.”
“Olivia.”
Diane said it sharply.
Too late.
Brooke’s face went cold.
“There she is.”
Olivia froze.
Brooke continued.
“Dad’s house.”
“Dad’s money.”
“Dad’s everything.”
“Brooke.”
Diane stepped between them.
But the sentence had arrived.
Olivia stared.
“What does that have to do with my dress?”
Brooke grabbed her purse from the bed.
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“Because you say stuff like that all the time.”
“No, I don't.”
“You don't have to.”
Brooke looked around the room.
The ocean view.
The large closet.
The vanity.
The garment rack.
“You live it.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed.
“You live here too.”
“Sometimes.”
“Because you have your own apartment.”
“Exactly.”
“You're twenty-two.”
“Exactly.”
Olivia looked completely confused.
Diane stepped closer to Brooke.
“Go downstairs.”
Brooke stared.
“Mom.”
“Now.”
Brooke picked up her phone.
“Fine.”
She walked out.
The door shut.
Not slammed.
That almost made it worse.
Olivia looked at Diane.
“You believe her.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I believe I did not see the beginning.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Diane crouched slightly to inspect the damage again.
Olivia pulled away.
“Don't.”
Diane stopped.
The teenager’s eyes were full now.
“What?”
“You always do this.”
Diane straightened.
“Do what?”
“Make it equal.”
“I am not making it equal.”
“Every time Brooke does something, it becomes both of us.”
Diane stared.
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
“Olivia.”
“When she took my sketchbook last year, you said I shouldn't leave it downstairs.”
“She returned it.”
“She had it for three days.”
“She thought it was hers.”
“It had my name on it.”
Diane sighed.
“This is not about the sketchbook.”
“When she posted my jacket online before I submitted it, you said I should have told her it was private.”
“She deleted it.”
“She shouldn't have posted it.”
“I agreed.”
“But first you explained why she did it.”
Diane’s face tightened.
Olivia continued.
“When she borrowed my sewing machine without asking, you told both of us we needed to communicate better.”
“It was a family machine.”
“It was my birthday present.”
Diane stopped.
That one she remembered.
Michael had bought Olivia a high-end sewing machine for her fifteenth birthday.
Brooke had taken it to her apartment for a brand shoot without asking.
Diane made Brooke return it.
Then lectured both girls about sharing.
At the time, that had felt balanced.
Now it sounded different.
Olivia looked at her.
“Everything becomes both.”
Diane swallowed.
“I am trying not to assume the worst about either of you.”
“That sounds nice.”