THE STERLING INHERITANCE

**POV: Isla**

The pediatric break room smelled like stale coffee and antiseptic, but I'd stopped noticing months ago. It was my sanctuary-a pocket of quiet between rounds where screaming monitors and worried parents couldn't reach me. I curled into the worn armchair by the window, the one with the spring that poked through if you sat wrong, and pulled out my phone.

One new email.

My heart did that stupid flutter it always did when I saw his name in my inbox. Well, not his name exactly. Just two letters: D.C.

I'd been writing to D.C. for two years now, ever since the hospital's charity pen-pal program matched us. Anonymous correspondence with donors-a way to humanize the foundation's work, they said. Most people exchanged a letter or two and faded away. But D.C. and I... we'd never stopped.

I opened his message and felt the tension drain from my shoulders as I read.

*Dear E.A.,*

*Do you ever feel like you're drowning in a room full of people? I hosted another charity dinner last night-two hundred guests, champagne flowing, everyone wanting something. A photo. A business card. Five minutes of my attention. And the whole time, I felt like I was suffocating. Like I could disappear and the party would continue without missing a beat.*

*Is that loneliness? Being surrounded by people and feeling utterly alone?*

*Sometimes I think these letters to you are the only honest conversations I have. You don't want anything from me except my words. That's rare in my world. That's everything.*

*Tell me I'm not crazy.*

*Yours,*

*D.C.*

I pressed the phone to my chest, closing my eyes. He wasn't crazy. God, if anyone understood that particular brand of loneliness, it was me.

"Isla! We need you in room 407!"

Elena's voice shattered the moment. I shoved my phone in my pocket and hurried back to work. The letter would have to wait.

---

Four hours later, after calming a terrified six-year-old through blood draws and charting medication for twelve patients, I finally made it home to my tiny studio apartment. It wasn't much-just one room with a kitchen alcove and a bathroom the size of a closet-but it was mine. No sisters commandeering the space with their designer clothes and important phone calls. No parents measuring me against impossible standards.

Just me, my books, and the soft glow of twinkle lights I'd strung above my bed because they made the space feel less lonely.

I changed into my softest pajamas, made chamomile tea, and settled cross-legged on my bed with my laptop. D.C.'s letter was still open on my phone, waiting.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. In person, I could barely string two sentences together without apologizing for taking up space. But here, in the quiet dark with only a screen between us, I could be brave.

*Dear D.C.,*

*You're not crazy. What you described-drowning in a room full of people-that's my every family dinner. Except I'm not drowning because there are too many people wanting my attention. I'm drowning because no one notices I'm there at all.*

I paused, biting my lip. Was that too much? Too vulnerable?

But that was the thing about writing to D.C. I could say the things I'd never dare speak aloud. He didn't know me. Didn't know I was the forgettable youngest Ashford sister. Didn't know that "invisible" was practically my middle name.

I kept typing.

*My mother spoke over me three times at dinner last week. Not interrupting-just talking like I hadn't been speaking at all. My father asked my sister about her latest case while I was mid-sentence about my work. They didn't even realize they'd done it.*

*Sometimes I wonder if I'm just meant to be background noise in everyone else's story. The supporting character. The one people forget was even in the room.*

*But then I read your letters, and for a little while, I feel real. Like I exist beyond just taking up space. You see me-or at least, you see my words. And maybe that's the closest I'll ever get to being truly seen.*

*Is it pathetic that my most meaningful relationship is with someone I've never met?*

My fingers froze. That was definitely too much. I should delete it, rewrite it, make myself sound less desperate.

But I was tired of editing myself into something more palatable.