Chapter Text
The numbers swim in her vision. Helena blinks until they come back into focus. Stocks are up 2.3% from this time last year. A victory, by any metric. The stabilization she orchestrated is nothing short of miraculous, thanks to twelve long months of sleepless nights and grinding herself into dust. The report sits on her desk, a neat stack of paper that proves her competence. It feels like nothing. Her fingers drift to the peace lily on her windowsill—one of three plants rescued from Helly's old apartment. She tears away a dead frond and crumbles it beneath her finger tips.
Her father's footsteps cut through the silence. No knock—there never is. He pushes through the door with that careful gait, his suit hanging like expensive drapery over a skeleton. Still, his eyes are as cutting as ever, dissecting her and every corner of her office with familiar disdain. The cancer might be winning the war, but it's losing every battle that matters. How fortunate.
"Father." She brushes the plant debris from her hands, straightening her posture.
He settles into the chair across her desk without invitation, his breathing shallow and labored. He's dying by degrees, everyone with eyes can see it, but his will to live seems powered entirely by contempt—for the world that would dare continue without his favorite daughter at its helm, for the only daughter that remains. Death itself seems to be waiting for his permission.
"The quarterlies look promising," he grunts.
"Yes. We've exceeded projections by twelve percent." She gestures to the report, the neat columns of figures that represent her life's work. "Market confidence is fully restored." She stares at him like a dog waiting for a treat.
"Mm," he says instead. He picks up the framed picture on her desk: her mother, young and radiant, caught mid-laugh at some long-forgotten moment. "You've always had her eyes, Helly."
Helena blinks. Swallows. Her heart starts racing just a few beats faster. "Father, it's me. Helena."
His gaze lifts from the picture, confusion flickering across his features before settling back into that familiar mask of control. "Oh. Right. When is she coming back?"
"She's not," Helena reminds him for what might be the thousandth time. Somehow, Helly leaving has become another personal failure of hers, a catastrophic inability to keep the only thing that mattered to both of them. His gaze acts as a cruel mirror, gathering all of her private shame and focusing it into a single, searing point. She thinks about that night often—combing through every moment, every word, convinced that somewhere in the wreckage of their drunken mistake lies the answer. That if she had been different, better, enough, Helly might have stayed. She comes up empty every time, but still, she looks.
"Of course she's coming back," Father declares with the casual authority of a man who reshapes the world to his will. "The board is still concerned about leadership succession. They want assurance that the transition will be seamless when the time comes."
"I've proven my competence. The recovery speaks for itself."
"Competence," he scoffs. "Competence isn't vision. The board needs to see more." He gestures vaguely, as if more is something tangible she could simply produce from thin air. "They need to know that Lumon is in capable hands."
Even absent, even across the country building a life that has nothing to do with the company or legacy or any of this, Helly still haunts every aspect of her life. She gets to bloom under California sunshine while Helena wilts under fluorescent lights, and still she's Father's favorite. For twenty-two years, Helly had absorbed every ray of Father's affection and let just enough filter through to keep Helena alive in the shadows. It was a cruel system—she sees that now—but it was their system, and it had worked. Barely. Then Helly fled with every drop of affection Helena had ever tasted and left her to learn what it means to be truly unloved. No buffer and certainly no mercy, just the raw, burning ache of never being enough for a man who doesn't even remember her name.
"I understand," Helena says, because there's nothing else to say.
He rises slowly, the movement taking more effort than it should. At the door, he pauses. "By Kier, get rid of those plants. They look like hell."
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Helena alone with the crushing weight of her own meaninglessness. A year of perfect execution, flawless results, endless sacrifice, and it amounts to nothing. She is nothing. Just a placeholder keeping Helly's seat warm until she decides to care again.
She should despise her. Should be furious at Helly for abandoning her to face Father's slow death alone, but she's too empty for even righteous anger. She just misses her sister. Pressing on the bruise does nothing except remind her of the pain she used to be able to feel.
Without conscious thought, she opens their text thread. Weeks of scattered small talk stare back at her, punctuated by Helena's sterile check-ins to ensure her sister is still breathing. Her thumbs tremble over the keyboard, but what could she possibly say? What words exist for this kind of emptiness?
She reaches for a different contact instead.
Want to grab drinks tonight?
The response comes quickly: Usual place, 7?
𐂂—ڪ
The bar is sleek and forgettable, the kind of place young professionals go to pretend they have lives outside the office. Helena finds Natalie already seated in their usual booth.
"You look like shit," Natalie says by way of greeting, gesturing for Helena to sit.
"Thanks. Always such a pleasure." Helena slides into the booth and signals the waitress. "Vodka on the rocks. Make it a double."
Natalie raises an eyebrow. "That kind of day?"
"That kind of year." The drink arrives faster than expected, and Helena downs half of it in one swallow. The burn is immediate and welcome.
"Your father?" Natalie asks. "Or Helly?"
"Huh?"
"Which one is giving you trouble this time?"
"Oh." Helena chews on her lip. She hates being this transparent, this predictable. Stuck with the same problems her entire life and still she can't fix them. "Father. Or, well, both, I guess. She's still listed as heir, you know that?" She finishes her drink and immediately signals for another. "I've been pulling off miracles and—you know he called me Helly today? Like he's trying to will it into existence."
Natalie shifts uncomfortably. She's heard variations of this rant before, but never quite this raw. "When's the last time you talked to her?"
"We text sometimes. Well, I text her first, then she sends… updates, I guess. Pictures of her apartment, her stupid succulents—which are dying, by the way. I mean seriously, how do you kill a succulent? And then the beach, of course. She's always at the beach. It's like getting postcards from a vacation that never ends."
Natalie laughs. "Okay. And then what do you respond with?"
"A heart react, usually." Helena feels Natalie's gaze drilling through her. "Sometimes a thumbs down, but I use them sparingly."
Natalie leans forward, her voice gentle but persistent. "It's just… you two were always close. Closer than most siblings. It can't be easy, having her so far away."
There's something in Natalie's tone that makes Helena's skin crawl. "We're twins," she says flatly. "Of course we're close."
"I know, but—" Natalie stops herself, takes a sip of her martini. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing. You've just been different since she left, that's all. You barely talk to anyone."
Helena picks at the laminate peeling from the table. She feels her nose twitching and she wonders if Natalie notices. "I'm talking to you. Right now."
"Okay."
Helena knows she's right. This isn't friendship. It's convenience wrapped in the pretense of connection at best. More honestly, professional obligation—Natalie humoring her boss. But pride is a luxury for those who aren't starving.
"Hey," Helena says, scrunching the side of her face. "Do you want to, uh, maybe…" she trails off, hoping Natalie will get the gist.
"What?"
She's never so lucky. "Come back to my place again?"
Natalie laughs. "Helena, no."
The rejection stings. She hadn't expected it. "Okay… um, why?"
"I'm seeing someone," Natalie states plainly. "I have been for months."
"Months? Why didn't you ever mention it?"
"You never asked."
Helena finds herself speechless.
"Look," Natalie says. "I know it's not my place, but… you never seemed into it anyway."
"What?" Helena scoffs. "Of course I was."
"You couldn't finish."
"I never finish with anybody."
"Listen, it's fine if you're not into women. I just feel like, sometimes…" Natalie pauses. "Never mind."
"Oh my god, what?"
Natalie downs the rest of her drink. "It's just… you don't have to be Helly. You can be your own person."
This whole evening feels like one elaborate humiliation ritual orchestrated by none other than herself. She'd practically fed Natalie the lines. "That's not what this is at all. Christ, Natalie," she snaps.
"Okay. I'm sorry."
The silence is unbearable. "I should go," Helena finally says, though she makes no move to leave.
"You should call her," Natalie says quietly.
Helena laughs bitterly. "And say what? Hi, it's me, the sister you couldn't wait to get away from. Just checking to see if you miss me even a fraction of how much I miss you?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of hello."
"She doesn't want to hear from me."
"How do you know?"
"Because—" Helena stops, the words too painful to say aloud. Because if Helly wanted to talk to her, she would have called. Because if Helly missed her, she would have visited. Because if Helly loved her the way Helena does, she never would have left in the first place. "I have to go," Helena mutters, fumbling for her wallet.
"Helena—"
"Thanks for humoring me with the therapy session." Helena throws too much money on the table. "I'll see you Monday."
𐂂—ڪ
Helena stands in front of the medicine cabinet and stares them down, same as she has every day for the past several months. Father's sleeping pills. It started as nothing more than a fleeting thought; an idea for an easy escape, a way to turn off the lights and end this wretched feeling pressing down on her from every direction. But she waited. She always waits. As if the container could pry itself open and each pill could grow wings and fly down her throat. She spent her entire life waiting for salvation to arrive at her doorstep. How fitting that her final act would be the first time she'd ever reached for what she wanted herself.
This is it, then. Maybe she'd waited because some desperate part of her believed it would improve, that her carefully scattered breadcrumbs of despair would lead someone back to her. Anyone.
(The only person who matters).
Blind, stupid hope that despite how fundamentally broken she is—how deservedly unloved—something would change. It never did. It never can. She's been like this her entire life, waiting to be found. She can't even imagine another way to be.
She empties the bottle into her hand. Eleven pills. Almost one for each month since she last felt the warm touch of someone who used to love her—or so she thought. The more time passes, the more she questions if it was ever real at all, or if Helly had loved her the same way Helena loves Father: a genetic obligation. A chore inherited at birth and maintained through gritted teeth until it became unbearable. It doesn't matter now, she supposes. It's over. It's been over. She's just been delaying the inevitable.
She brings her hand to her mouth, almost there, then her arm betrays her, pulling back like it has a mind of its own. She chokes out a sob. Her final moments and she's still replaying the same scene: Helly's mouth on her, so reverent, claiming every inch of her skin like it belonged to her. She wishes it did. But she sees it clearly now—the alcohol had blurred her sister's vision until she couldn't see the rot staring back. Helena had knowingly sold her damaged goods, and the moment Helly realized what she'd purchased, she'd returned the defective product to sender. Time to dispose of it properly.
Her phone vibrates with a text from her sister.
idk what's wrong with my succulent
She stares at the text, eyes glazed and uncomprehending. Her hands shake so violently that three pills scatter into the sink like dice. A photo follows: the succulent in all its rotted glory, so thoroughly destroyed it's almost impressive. She sets her phone down and tries to finish what she started, but her hands are tacky with sweat and the pills stick to her skin. She flings her arm toward her mouth and they fly everywhere, bouncing off walls, rolling into shadows. The sound that rips from her chest is barely human. She lashes out blindly, sweeping everything from the counter in a cascade of breaking glass and spilling lotions.
She texts Helly back.
I fucking told you to move it into direct sunlight
She presses send, then realizes she has more to say.
you never listen to me. EVER oh my fuckign god if i didnt practically live at your old apartment all of your plants woudl have been dea d within a WEEEK
She paces in tight circles, hands clutching at nothing, grasping for something solid in a world that's completely unmoored. Breathe, she tells herself. Just breathe. Two minutes pass in measured agony, tears pooling in the hollow of her throat, her shirt hem sodden and sagging. She sinks to her knees, picking through the debris for pills, managing to collect four before her phone intrudes again.
???????? wtf relax i'll just get a new one. they're like $3
She throws the pills in her mouth, bitter with the taste of her face cream, then tries to swallow. They cling to her tongue, one catching in the back of her throat. She coughs violently, spitting them back out in a rope of saliva that lands wetly on the tile. That's that, then. She wonders if this miserable little theater could even qualify as a suicide attempt.
She grabs her phone to search for hanging tutorials when her gaze lands back on the photo of the murdered plant. The truth slams into her then: Helly needs her. Not in the way Helena wants to be needed, kicking and screaming against every piece of guidance, but she needs her.
She books a red-eye to San Diego.
𐂂—ڪ
She miscalculated. Forgot California steals three hours, leaving her suspended in borrowed time. Helena stands in the darkness outside Helly's townhome, body stiff from the long flight. She's been lurking on the porch for fifteen minutes, paralyzed between the need to see her sister and the growing awareness of how insane she looks. Helly won't be awake for hours anyway—she's never been one for urgency, immune to the anxiety that drives Helena from bed before sunrise. She moves to sit on the step and immediately gets blasted by sprinklers.
"Shit," she curses under her breath, trying to grab her suitcase and get the hell away from—
"Helena?" The door creaks open. "What the fuck?"
"Helly, hi—sorry, did I wake you?" she asks before a sprinkler shoots a beam of water directly into her eyeball. She tries to pretend it didn't happen.
"It's five-thirty in the fucking morning, what do you think?" Helly grumbles, rubbing sleep out of her eye. "Holy shit, why didn't you—oh my god, you're actually here," she laughs. "Come here." She lunges forward and wraps Helena up so tightly it's almost violent.
A sob catches in Helena's throat as Helly's arms close around her. When did her sister get so strong? Months of isolation, dissolved in seconds. She's shaking, can't stop shaking, pressing her face into the familiar hollow of her sister's neck, breathing in that same musk she's been smelling her entire life. Her fingers dig into soft flesh, desperate for an anchor. God, she's missed this. The hunger rises unbidden and she lets herself feel it, finding the soft skin at the base of Helly's throat, kissing, tasting—
Helly chokes out a laugh, jerking back. They stare at each other for a few loaded seconds. Helena stands perfectly frozen, suddenly questioning whether their drunken encounter was real or if she'd hallucinated some elaborate fiction to survive the past year. "Uh," Helly wipes at her neck. "Let's get you inside."
"Okay," Helena says quietly, eyes wide. She crosses the threshold cautiously—already feeling like an intruder—into warm air, thick with salt and the scent of cedar. Her sister's old loft was a cold, industrial cavern that Helena had to fill with plants just to make it breathe, but this place is alive. A massive window frames a sliver of sun just starting to peak over the hills, spilling muted golden light across worn hardwood floors. The walls are crowded with the kind of abstract art that looks both expensive and desperate to look like it isn't. Every corner of it is Helly, and none of it is for her.
Then she hears it.
"Babe?" A sleepy voice drifts from the hallway, followed by footsteps. "Who's here?"
"My sister," Helly shouts back. "Don't worry. You can go back to sleep and we'll talk in the—"
"It's fine," the woman's voice interrupts unobstructed, turning the corner. She clicks the lights on and everyone squints.
She's a bit older—early thirties, maybe—and entirely gorgeous.
Helena wishes she was better at killing herself.
"What the—you two look exactly alike," the woman says, studying Helena with sleepy curiosity. "Though someone clearly got the bigger portions growing up."
"Did… she never mention she has a twin?" Helena asks.
Helly laughs awkwardly and steps between them. "How rude of me. Helena, this is Devon. Devon, Helena."
"Pleasure," Helena reaches out to shake her hand, but Devon doesn't seem to notice, her gaze locked onto Helena's features, clearly trying to reconcile this face she knows so well on a complete stranger.
"She mentioned she has a sister. Seems like a pretty important detail to leave out," Devon says, raising a brow.
"Well, that's Helly for you," Helena laughs. "She's never been one for details. In fact, she's never mentioned you at all."
Devon shoots Helly a look. "What? You didn't?"
"You never asked," Helly says, shooting Helena a glare, the kind she's gotten from her since they were kids on the playground—stop embarrassing me. "We've barely talked since I moved."
"We talk all the time," Helena says, throwing her coat on the couch—the oversized eyesore from Helly's old apartment. It must have cost more to move it than to just get a new one. "You just texted me last night."
"Because I hadn't heard from you in a month," Helly scoffs. "Usually by now I get one of your passive-aggressive texts making sure I remember how to put my pants on in the morning."
"Well, do you?"
Helly rolls her eyes. "Why are you here, Helena? Like, why now?"
"Because you can't remember how to put your pants on in the morning."
"Oh my god," Helly laughs incredulously. "You're actually here because of the fucking succulent."
"I'm here because I have an open invitation from about a year ago," Helena says, sitting on the couch and curling her legs to her chest. "Unless you forgot? It seems like you might have."
Helly furrows her brow, frustration in her features willfully dulled by the knowledge of being watched by her… girlfriend? "I've been trying to get you to come out here for ages now."
"Right. That's why you never call?"
"You never— oh my god, why are you being such—" Helly balls her fists, then closes her eyes, taking a deep breath through her nose. "It's fine. You're tired. You must have been on that plane all night, yeah?"
"I figured I would just sleep when I got here."
"Good. Yes. Do that," Helly sighs, running a hand through her hair—longer now. Her curls are messier and Helena wonders if that's the California air or if she's stopped using the product Helena picked out for her. "I'll get you some blankets."
"You're gonna make me sleep on the couch?" Helena quirks a brow.
"Yeah, it's a one bedroom," Helly responds.
"Why can't I sleep in your bed?"
Something tightens in Helly's expression, eyebrows pulling together in that way Helena knows means she's overstepped. Devon has that look—the one Helena remembers from childhood, when adults would stare at her and Helly after they'd done something that felt normal to them but clearly wasn't.
"Did you want to sleep between us like a kid having a nightmare?" Devon laughs. "What kind of question is that?"
"I'm sorry, do you live here?" Helena asks. "Who are you exactly?"
"Helena, that's enough," Helly says with a finality that wasn't there before. She takes a half step closer to Devon, a small, protective gesture Helly's used on her baby sister thousands of times before. It would have been more kind to punch Helena in the face.
Devon is smiling in a way that makes Helena's skin crawl—like she just solved a puzzle she's been looking at for months. "Yes, I live here. Did you want to see my name on the lease?"
Helena offers a small, tight smile. "Just wondering." She leans back into the couch and bumps her head on the backing. Add still not getting pillows to the list of things she wants to strangle her sister for. "It's a nice place, by the way."
Devon lets out a low chuckle. "Okay." Devon walks to the linen closet, and Helena can't help but notice how fucking comfortable she looks, how her feet know exactly where to avoid the creaky floorboards, how she opens the door without having to look at the handle.
"Hey, get her the down comforter. She runs cold," Helly yells after her.
Devon throws the comforter onto the couch next to Helena with a condescending smile, then trots back into her bedroom. Helena thinks this might be her least favorite girlfriend that Helly's ever had, which is impressive. It's a long list, including but not limited to a pretentious art student who lectured Helena about the evils of capitalism, and a yoga instructor who kept trying to realign her chakras. But at least those idiots knew their place—temporary distractions, second to the most important relationship in Helly's life. Devon feels different. Devon feels like she's planning to stay.
"Alright. You good?" Helly asks.
"I guess," Helena shrugs. "You sure you don't want to sleep on the couch with me? I mean," she gestures, "it's huge."
Helly huffs out an exhausted sigh. "Good night, Helena." She starts walking away, but turns around, and there it is—that look Helena's been desperate to see—the soft eyes and worried brow that used to always appear after Helena had a nightmare. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay? I really did miss you."
"Right. Okay," Helena says. She's not quite sure she believes it, but she supposes it makes no difference. She's here. And she's not leaving.