Marian Stark did not believe in coincidences.
They were excuses people used when they didn't want to admit something had weight.
So when Violet Hawthorne stood on that stage—alive, composed, unfamiliar—and looked at Marian like she was a stranger, Marian did not think coincidence.
She thought:
You left again.
Marian lingered near the edge of the ballroom long after Violet returned to her family. She did not follow. She did not interrupt. She did not press.
She had learned long ago how to wait.
It was a skill honed in empty rooms and silent houses, in places where time stretched and people did not come back when promised. Waiting was safer than reaching.
Still, something in her chest twisted unpleasantly.
She took a sip of champagne she did not taste and watched Violet from across the room.
She looked… different.
Not physically—Violet had always been pretty, even as a child. That wasn't what caught Marian's attention.
It was the way she held herself now.
Careful.
Measured.
Like someone constantly calculating how much space she was allowed to take.
That was new. She thought, a feeling of quite resentment towards Violet overcoming her.
The Violet Marian remembered had been loud without trying, careless in the way only people who had never lacked attention could be. She had taken up space effortlessly, dragging Marian along behind her like an afterthought.
And Marian had let her.
Because Violet had been there.
Always there.
Marian left the gala early.
No one noticed. No one ever did unless she wanted them to.
The drive home was quiet, the city lights blurring past the window like distant stars. Her driver asked if she wanted the radio on.
"No," Marian said.
She rested her head against the glass and closed her eyes.
The memories came anyway.
Violet had been the first constant in Marian's life.
Not her parents—those were names on legal documents and voices behind closed doors. Not teachers, who changed every year. Not tutors, who were paid to tolerate her.
Violet had been… persistent.
They met as children, forced into proximity by circumstance and social obligation. Marian remembered standing stiffly behind her father's leg at some event, watching other children play without her.
Violet had walked up, stared at her for a moment, then said—
"Why are you standing like that?"
Not hello.
Not what's your name.
Just that.
Marian had blinked, unsure how to answer.
"You look uncomfortable," Violet added. "Come with me."
And then she had taken Marian's hand, dragging her somewhere without a second thought.
Just like that.
Violet had been cruel sometimes. Thoughtless. Sharp-tongued in the way privileged children often were.
But she had also been consistent.
She showed up.
She dragged Marian into things.
She talked to her when no one else did.
—Even if that was so Violet could order her around.
Marian learned Violet's moods by the sound of her footsteps. Learned when to stay quiet and when to push back. Learned that Violet's anger passed quickly, but Violets absence always lingered like a wound.
And then—
Violet really disappeared.
No warning.
No explanation.
One day she simply wasn't there anymore.
Marian had waited.
She had waited through weeks, months, years—telling herself Violet would come back, that people didn't vanish without reason.
But Violet did.
And Marian learned the most important lesson of her childhood:
Constants aren't truly constant.
The apartment was dark when Marian returned.
She removed her blazer and set her phone down carefully on the counter. Everything had a place. Everything was controlled.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
"She doesn't remember me," Marian said quietly.
The words tasted bitter.
She poured herself a glass of wine and leaned against the counter, fingers tightening around the glass.
"I am not angry."
She told herself, but she didn't believe it.
She had prepared herself for Violet to be changed. For distance. For discomfort.
She had not prepared herself for being erased.
We used to be familiar.
She replayed the moment Violet apologized—how immediate it was, how sincere.
That had thrown her.
The Violet Marian knew never apologized easily.
This one had done so without hesitation.
Which meant either Violet had truly changed…
Or she was lying.
Marian exhaled slowly.
She did not like not knowing which.
Marian downed the glass of wine.
Then filled another, and another.
The next day, Marian returned to work as if nothing had happened.
She reviewed contracts, approved expansions, chaired meetings. Her employees followed her cues—efficient, quiet, professional.
But beneath it all, something pulled at her attention.
Violet Hawthorne.
Not the Hawthorne name. Not the collaboration.
Violet.
Marian had not approached her at the gala to destabilize her. She had not wanted revenge.
She had wanted confirmation.
That Violet still existed.
And now she had it.
But it wasn't the confirmation she'd hoped for.
Marian sat alone in her office later that afternoon, staring at the city skyline.
She tapped her fingers against the desk once. Twice.
"She looks tired," she murmured.
That was the thing that bothered her most.
Not the denial.
Not the avoidance.
The exhaustion.
Violet looked like someone who had learned to survive by shrinking.
That did not sit well with Marian.
That evening, Marian found herself staring at her phone longer than necessary.
She did not need to message Violet again. She had already given her an out.
If that's what you want.
Marian had meant it.
She was not interested in forcing herself into Violet's life.
But wanting and letting go were not the same thing.
She set the phone face down and closed her eyes.
"I'm not dependent," she said quietly.
She had told herself that for years.
She was self-sufficient. Controlled. Independent.
But the truth was less flattering.
and she ended up texting Violet despite knowing leaving her alone was best.
Because Violet had been the first person who stayed long enough to matter.
And losing that—twice—left something hollow.
Marian did not need Violet to survive.
But she did not know how to replace the space she occupied.
Later that night, Marian opened an old box stored in the back of a closet.
Inside were things she had never thrown away.
A faded ribbon.
A cracked bracelet.
A note written in careless handwriting that said "Don't be boring."
She closed the box gently.
"If you want space," Marian said to the empty room, "I'll give it to you."
But her voice lacked conviction.
Because despite everything—despite the confusion, the distance, the ache—
Violet was still the only person Marian trusted enough to be honest with.
The only one she wanted to explain herself to.
The only one who had ever felt like home.
And now that constant was gone.
Again.
Marian turned off the light and stood in the dark for a moment longer than necessary.
"I won't chase you," she whispered.
But even as she said it, she knew one thing for certain:
If Violet ever reached out—
Marian, despite what she told herself, would be there.