“Fifteen.”
“Yes.”
He did not argue.
Maya nodded.
“Okay.”
Not forgiveness.
Acknowledgment.
The burned gown became its own problem.
Simone paid the dressmaker in full before the first trust review meeting.
The designer offered to recreate it.
Maya refused.
“Same fabric.”
“No.”
“Same beadwork.”
“No.”
“We can make it exactly—”
“No.”
She was polite.
Firm.
The replacement would always be a replacement chosen because someone destroyed the first.
She did not want to spend months forcing herself to love it.
Instead, when Desert Ridge Academy held winter formal four months later, Maya bought a dark green jumpsuit from a department store.
One hundred thirty dollars.
No custom anything.
She looked excellent.
Simone saw photographs online.
Did not comment.
Good.
Their first real conversation happened five months after the fire.
Not because parents scheduled it.
Simone emailed.
Subject:
Request, not ambush.
Maya almost deleted it.
Instead she read.
I need to return something that belongs to you. I will leave it with Dad if you do not want to see me. Your choice.
Maya replied:
What?
Simone answered:
A storage box from the house. I found it mixed into Silver Tide inventory. It has your mom’s name on it.
Maya’s heart tightened.
She called immediately.
“What box?”
Simone sounded startled.
“Blue archival box.”
“Where?”
“My studio.”
“Open?”
“No.”
“Don't.”
“I won't.”
Maya drove with Adrian.
He remained in the car.
Maya entered Simone’s rented studio alone.
The place was nothing like the beach house.
Industrial unit.
Concrete floor.
White curtains hung from ceiling tracks.
Rental tables.
Vases.
Lighting equipment.
Simone stood near the office holding a blue box.
Maya recognized Nia’s handwriting.
BEACH HOUSE — OLD RECEIPTS / PHOTOS.
Her anger flared immediately.
“How did you get this?”
Simone shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“That's not good enough.”
“I know.”
Maya glared.
Simone corrected herself.
“Sorry.”
She tried again.
“I think it was moved during the 2024 plumbing repair.”
“Dad let me store event materials in the upstairs closet.”
“Some boxes got moved into my van.”
“I found this last week behind linens.”
Maya took it.
Still sealed with aging tape.
“You had it for two years?”
“Apparently.”
“Did Mom know?”
“Renee?”
“Yes.”
“I don't think so.”
Maya stared.
Simone swallowed.
“I would understand if you don't believe me.”
Maya looked toward the studio.
Silver Tide’s logo on the wall.
Maya remembered the fire.
Simone followed her gaze.
“I don't use fire pits anymore.”
Maya looked back.
“What?”
“Bad joke.”