1 I’ve been a contrarian since I was in diapers. At the Saint Jude’s Group Home, I was the undisputed queen of the "Well, Actually." When a girl in my dorm flaunted a red hair ribbon, claiming it was "imported French silk," I didn't join the chorus of oohs and aahs. I just narrowed my eyes and leaned against the doorframe. "It’s synthetic polyester, Sarah," I said, my voice dripping with boredom. "Your arm is literally turning pink from the cheap dye. Stop acting like you’re wearing Chanel when you’re wearing a chemical fire hazard." When a senior finally got into a local community college after failing her remedial exams three times, and the whole house was throwing a pizza party to celebrate, I couldn't help but let out a dry laugh. "We’re popping sparkling cider for a two-year degree that took her six years to reach? The bar isn’t on the floor; it’s in the basement." I wasn't trying to be a bitch; I just had a pathological allergy to bullshit. That allergy eventually led me to a heated debate on a subreddit. I tore into a guy’s logic so thoroughly that he got tilted, doxxed me out of spite, and accidentally stumbled upon a cold-case file. Instead of ruining my life, he handed me a golden ticket: my birth parents weren't just alive; they were the Harringtons—the kind of "old money" family that has their name on half the buildings in the city. The only problem? They already had a daughter. A "replacement" daughter. The day I arrived at their sprawling estate in Greenwich, she was already there, eyes brimming with tears, hiding behind her mother’s silk blouse. "Riley," she choked out, her voice a delicate vibrato. "You don't need to look at me with such hatred. I know I’ve been living the life that belonged to you. I’ll leave. I’ll pack my things right now." I licked the back of my teeth, feeling that familiar itch in my throat. Some people find peace in meditation; I find it in a well-timed rebuttal. "Oh, please," I said, eyeing her custom-tailored Dior dress. "If you were actually going to leave, you’d be upstairs packing instead of performing a monologue. You’ve known about the DNA test for a week. What were you waiting for? An engraved invitation?" The room went cold. Arthur Harrington, my biological father, stepped forward to shield the girl—Seraphina—from my words. He looked at me with the kind of disdain usually reserved for a grease stain on a white rug. "Blood relative or not," he snapped, "you will show some respect in this house. This is a family of status, and if you can't learn the rules..." I nodded vigorously, cutting him off. "Right, right. We’re doing the 'Downton Abbey' roleplay? I didn't realize I needed to curtsy. Tell me, Arthur, do you have a scepter, or do you just use your ego to compensate for the lack of a crown?" Their faces froze. It was a beautiful sight. Eleanor, my mother, tilted her chin up with a practiced air of superiority. She squeezed Seraphina’s hand. "Trying to grab our attention with such low-class antics is quite pathetic, dear." I raised an eyebrow. "Attention? Why would I want your attention? I’m not a peacock in heat. I’m just pointing out that the air in here is about 90% pretension and 10% oxygen." They had no comeback for that. With one final, searing glare, they turned and swept out of the foyer. I followed them in, unbothered, trailing behind like a ghost they couldn't exorcise. A butler appeared, holding a silver basin of water and a linen towel. I paused, confused, until Seraphina let out a small, condescending snicker. "In this house, we sanitize our hands before entering the living quarters. I forgot you wouldn't be used to... civilized hygiene. It’s okay if you don't understand the etiquette." I didn't even blink. "Sanitize? I thought this was a home, not a surgical wing at Mount Sinai. Are you all so toxic you have to worry about cross-contamination just by touching the doorknobs?" By the end of day one, every servant in the house knew my name. And Seraphina, having lost that round, went crying to the masters of the house. A few hours later, the front door slammed open. An older woman with a crown of silver hair and a string of pearls tight enough to choke her marched in. She took one look at me and let out a sharp "Hmph." "So this is the biological granddaughter? She’s certainly not as graceful as my Seraphina." Ah, the Matriarch. Martha Harrington. My "parents" followed her down the stairs, Seraphina clinging to Martha’s arm like a parasite. "Grandma!" Seraphina wailed. "I’m so glad you’re here. She’s been so cruel..." Martha trembled with rage, pointing a gnarled, diamond-encrusted finger at my nose. "I don't care whose blood you share! Seraphina is my heart! You lay one finger on her, and I will make sure you’re back in that gutter you crawled out of. I’ll fight you with my last breath!" I leaned back, unimpressed. "Honestly, Martha? Fighting me with your 'last breath' seems like a losing proposition for you. I’m eighteen and I do cardio. You’re eighty and look like you’re one strong breeze away from a hip replacement. It’s not a fair fight." The silence in the living room was absolute. Martha’s face turned a shade of purple that matched her amethyst earrings. She sputtered, unable to form words. I didn't stop. "What is this, a Mafia movie? 'You touch my family and I’ll burn this city to the ground'? Grandma, you need to stop watching those daytime soaps. Your brain is turning into mush." I was on a roll, the words coming out like a Gatling gun. None of them could find an opening to interrupt. Finally, Martha’s hand went to her chest. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the velvet sofa. "Mother!" Arthur screamed. "Grandma!" Seraphina shrieked. It was chaos. I stood there, hand over my mouth, blinking innocently. Oops, I thought. Maybe I went a little too hard on that one. On the way to the hospital, they didn't stop lecturing me. I bit my tongue for once, mostly because I didn't want to be responsible for a double cardiac arrest in the back of a Maybach. When we pulled up to the ER, I moved to get out, but Seraphina shoved me back into the seat with her hip. "Don't bother coming in," she hissed. "Grandma wouldn't want to see your face if she wakes up." I looked at the unconscious woman on the stretcher, then back at Seraphina. I couldn't help myself. "Did she tell you that in a dream? Or are you a medium now? Because last I checked, she’s out cold." Arthur’s face was black with rage, but they didn't have time to argue. They rushed inside, leaving me to trail behind like a shadow. I spent the next few hours being invisible—handling the paperwork, standing in line for the insurance verification, while they hovered over the bed in the private suite. Once Martha was stabilized, Arthur finally looked at me. His brow was furrowed, his voice a cold command. "Since you’re the reason she’s in this bed, you will be the one to stay and care for her. Three meals a day, every need met. Consider it your penance." I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "The Harringtons are so wealthy they have 'sanitation basins' in the foyer, but you can't afford a private nurse? Or is it that your 'devotion' to Grandma is just for show, and none of you actually want to do the dirty work?" People in the hallway stopped to look. Some recognized the Harrington name and pulled out their phones. Arthur’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. Seraphina stepped up then, playing the martyr. "How can you be so heartless? We never said we wouldn't care for her! But you’re the one who put her here!" I rolled my eyes. "Pointing out the truth isn't being heartless, Seraphina. If you want to be the 'good daughter' so badly, grab a bedpan and get to work. Otherwise, stop acting like I’m the one being unreasonable for suggesting we hire a professional." A few onlookers snickered. The Harringtons, obsessed with their public image, couldn't handle the scrutiny. Arthur turned on his heel and stormed out, his wife and "daughter" in tow, leaving their precious grandmother alone in a hospital room. I felt a pang of pity for the old woman, so I went downstairs to grab some food for when she woke up. But when I got to the cafeteria, my card was declined. I stared at the screen. My own bank account—the one I’d built with my savings from three part-time jobs—was frozen. Arthur had used his connections to lock me out of my own life. I kicked a stone pillar outside the hospital. Bastards. By the time I got back to the house—having walked three miles because I didn't have Uber money—the locks were changed. I tried the keypad over and over, hearing the laughter of the "family" inside through the windows. No one came to the door. I looked at the heavy French windows. I picked up a decorative garden stone and smashed the glass. The sound of shattering crystal brought them running. When I climbed through the jagged frame, Eleanor was hysterical. "Riley! Are you insane? You broke the window! Why didn't you just use the door?" I brushed glass shards off my jeans. "Doors tend to work better when the people inside don't change the codes. Breaking the window was more efficient. Make sure you bill me for the repair—oh wait, you froze my account." I walked past them and headed upstairs to my room. Or, what used to be my room. The space was a disaster. My suitcases had been ripped open, my clothes strewn like trash. And there, in the center of the mess, was my college admission letter to the university's pre-law program. It was on the floor, covered in muddy footprints. Seraphina appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Oh, sorry about that," she said, her voice dripping with fake honey. "Dad said we’re knocking down this wall to expand my walk-in closet. You should probably move your junk to the basement." She stepped forward, her designer heel landing right on my signature on the letter, grinding it into the hardwood. I felt a vein throb in my temple. My hands balled into fists. "This was my room. Why is it yours now?" "Your room?" She laughed. "Riley, look at them. Look at how they treat you. You’re the biological daughter, sure, but you’re a stranger. To them, you’re just a mistake they’re trying to fix. You don't belong here. You never will." She looked at me with pure, unadulterated venom. "You’re nothing. Just a placeholder." I looked down at the muddy footprint on my future. I didn't cry. I felt cold. "Do you know anything about the law, Seraphina? I’m their legal heir. When they die, everything they have belongs to me by right of blood. You’re just a houseguest with a long leash." I smiled as her face drained of color. "I realized something. You’re so desperate to keep this life because you know you’re a knockoff. You’re terrified that the 'fake' is about to be returned to the store." "You bitch!" she screamed. But then, her eyes darted to the stairs. She saw Eleanor and Arthur approaching. In a split second, she shifted. She threw herself backward toward the top of the staircase, a manic, terrifying grin flaring on her lips for just one heartbeat. "Let’s see who they choose for an heir then!" She tumbled. It was a spectacular fall—a flurry of limbs and silk. She landed at the bottom like a broken doll, wailing in agony. A maid screamed, "She killed her! The new girl pushed her!" I stood at the top of the stairs, stone-faced. "She’s still breathing, Brenda. Calm down." Arthur and Eleanor reached the foyer, their faces masks of horror. Martha, who had apparently just been discharged, took one look at Seraphina and fainted again. "You monster!" Arthur roared, rushing to Seraphina’s side. "In my own home! You tried to murder her!" "Didn't touch her," I said. I reached up and unpinned the cheap, tacky brooch I’d been wearing all day. A tiny red light flickered on its side. "I’ve been a foster kid for eighteen years, Arthur. I learned a long time ago that people like you lie. So I started wearing a body cam." I tossed the brooch down to him. "Watch the footage. She jumped. It was a 10/10 for drama, but a 0/10 for logic. You want a daughter who’s a sociopath? You’ve got one. But don't you dare blame me for her shitty acting." Seraphina, who had been moaning, went dead silent. She looked up, seeing the camera in Arthur's hand, and the look on her face was worth every cent I’d spent on that gadget. "Get them to the hospital," I said, bored. "Before she 'dies' of embarrassment."
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