“You’re banned from the family beach house forever.”
The words came from Diana Crawford, my stepmother, snapping through the speaker with a sharp, almost gleeful cruelty that made my grip on the phone tighten. I watched my reflection in the glass—dark hair twisted into a loose, messy bun, sweater slipping off one shoulder—while the distant hum of traffic floated up from the street below.
“What?” I asked slowly.
“I’ve changed all the locks,” she went on, drawing out each word as if savoring it. “Do not even think about trying to get inside. This is what you deserve for ruining your sister’s graduation party.”
A quiet laugh almost escaped me. “You mean the party I was never invited to?” I asked evenly.
She let out an exaggerated scoff. “Oh please, do not start pretending you are the victim.”
“The same party where you told everyone I was too busy to attend?” I replied, keeping my voice calm. Years ago, I had learned that showing anger to Diana only fed her, because she treated every emotional reaction like a win.
Her laughter crackled through the line. “Everyone knows you are jealous of Madeline and her success,” she said smugly. “You will never step foot in that beach house again. I made sure of it.”
Jealousy had always been her go-to accusation. It had appeared the moment she married my father and entered our lives, and she used it whenever she wanted to twist the truth into something that painted her as innocent.
