My father’s personality is so strong that I’ve never seen anyone win an argument with him. I’ve certainly never done it. He’s like a glacier—cool, and immovable. Nothing can stand before him. He could crush an entire city in his path, given enough time.

It took an immense amount of will to escape the poverty of his birth. Nobody else in his family made it out. He had three older sisters—all three died or disappeared while he was still a boy. His parents are gone, too. He’s a world unto himself. He’s Jupiter, spinning around the sun, and Mama, Serwa, and I are tiny satellites, pulled along in his orbit.

I don’t think Mama minds, generally—she told me she fell in love with my father the moment she laid eyes on him. She’s been devoted to him since. He was incredibly handsome—tall, lean, as sharp as if he were carved out of obsidian. But I know it was more than that. She was an heiress, born in luxury. It was his obsessive drive that she loved. She’d never seen anything like it amongst all the children of privilege.

On their wedding day, she handed him control of her trust fund. In one year he grew it to three times its original size.

I wonder if there really is such a thing as love at first sight.

What does it feel like?

Does it feel like an arrow shooting into your chest, every time a pair of coal-black eyes fix on yours?

I can feel my face flushing all over again, just remembering.

“What is it?” Mama asks me. “You look strange. Do you need water? Food?”

“I’m fine, Mama,” I assure her.

My father is getting up from the couch.

“Where are you going?” she asks him.

“I’ve got to talk to Jessica.”

Jessica Thompson is his assistant.

“Right now?” Mama says, that line between her eyebrows appearing again.

“Immediately. She’s going to have to issue a press release. There’s no covering up the fact that our daughter was abducted. Not with all the commotion at the hotel.”

This is my father’s way—as soon as one problem is solved, he’s on to the next. I’m safe, so the next task at hand is damage control.

“It’s fine, Mama,” I say. “I’m just going to go to bed.”

“I’ll go up with you,” Serwa says.

I know my sister means it kindly, but honestly, she’s probably the one who needs help up the stairs. She’s currently in the throes of a lung infection, and her antibiotics aren’t working.

As we climb the wide, curving staircase, I slip my arm around her waist to help her up. I can hear her wheezing breaths.

My bedroom is the first on the left. Serwa follows me in, sitting on the edge of my bed.

I turn around so she can unzip my dress for me. I’m not embarrassed to be naked in front of her—Serwa is so much older that she’s always taken care of me, from the time I was little.

I step out of the dress, hanging it up carefully again in the closet. I only wore it a short time, and I never danced in it—there’s no need to send it to the cleaners.

As I hunt around for my favorite pajamas, Serwa says, “So tell me what really happened.”

I use the excuse of the pajamas to avoid looking at her.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you didn’t tell Tata and Mama everything.”

I find my pajamas with the little ice cream cones all over them and pull them on.

“Well,” I say, from inside the comforting darkness of the pajama top, “he was very handsome.”

“The thief?” Serwa cries.

“Yes—shh! Mama will hear you.”

“What did he look like?” Serwa whispers, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“He was huge—like one of those Russian powerlifters. Like he eats a dozen eggs and two chickens every meal.”

Serwa giggles. “That doesn’t sound handsome.”

“No, he was. He had this brutal face, broad jaw, dark eyes . . . but I could see he was intelligent. Not just a thug.”

“You could tell that just by looking at him?” Serwa says skeptically.

“Well . . . we talked a little too.”

“What!? About what?” she says, forgetting to be quiet again.

“Shh!” I remind her, though this house is massive and it’s unlikely anyone could hear us unless they were standing right outside the door. “Just . . . about everything. He asked where I was from, where I lived, and why I was crying before the party.”

“Why were you crying?” Serwa asks, frowning.

“Tata found out about Parsons.”

“Oh,” Serwa says. She knew I was applying. She was too kind to tell me it was a terrible idea. “Was he angry?”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, hugging me. “Cambridge is lovely, though. You’ll like it there.”

Serwa went, just like she was supposed to. She graduated with distinction, with a master’s in macroeconomics. She was offered an analyst position with Lloyd’s of London, but before she could start, she caught pneumonia three times in a row.

My sister has Cystic Fibrosis. My parents have paid for every type of treatment under the sun. And often, she gets better for months at a time. Or at least, she’s well enough to attend school or travel. But always, right when she’s on the cusp of her next achievement, it brings her low again.

It’s been the shadow hanging over our family all along. The knowledge that Serwa’s life is likely to be shorter than ours. That we only have her for so long.

That would be tragic in and of itself. What’s worse is that my sister happens to be the kindest person I’ve ever known. She’s gentle. She’s warm. She never has a bad word to say about anyone. And she’s always been there to help me and support me, even when her lungs are drowning and she’s weak from coughing.

She’s still so pretty, despite her illness. She reminds me of a doll, with her round face, dark eyes, flushed cheeks, and hair pulled back from a straight center-part. She’s petite and delicate. I wish I could hold her like a doll and protect her from anything awful happening to her.

I don’t tell Serwa about the kiss. It’s too bizarre and embarrassing. I’ve never behaved like that before. She’d be shocked. I’m shocked at myself, quite honestly.

“Well, I’m glad you’re safe,” Serwa says, squeezing my hand. My hand is bigger than hers. All of me is bigger—I grew taller than her when I was only ten years old.

“I love you, onuabaa,” I say.

“I love you, too,” she says.

Serwa goes back to her own room. After a moment I can hear the sound of her vibrating vest whirring away, knocking the mucus out of her airways.

I put on headphones, because that sound makes me sad.

I lay in my bed, listening to my Apocalypse playlist. I never listen to peaceful music to go to sleep.

I squirm under the covers, remembering the moment my lips met the lips of the thief . . . heat flooded through my body like a match thrown into dry grass. The flame spread in all directions, consuming everything in its path.

It was over in an instant, but it keeps repeating again and again in my brain . . .

I drift off to the sounds of “Zombie” by the Cranberries.

Zombie—The Cranberries (Spotify)