“The one where you told everyone I was too busy to attend my own stepsister’s celebration?” My tone stayed calm, flat, years of practice smoothing out the jagged edges of my emotions. It was a trick I’d learned early in life: never show Victoria you’d been hurt. She fed on that.
Victoria laughed, a brittle sound I could practically feel scraping across my skin. “Don’t play the victim, Alexandra. Everyone knows you’re jealous of Lily’s success. And now you’ll never set foot in that beach house again. I’ve made sure of it.”
Jealous. That word again. It had been her favorite label for me since the day she married my father—and not because it was true, but because it was convenient.
Behind my reflection in the window, I could almost see another image layered faintly over the glass: a wraparound porch, white railing peeling just a little at the corners, an old rocking chair, and the glittering expanse of the Atlantic beyond. The beach house.
Mom’s laugh drifted through my memory, warm and clear, wrapped in salt air.
“Alex, look at that wave! Bigger than you were at five, I swear.”
I blinked away the ghost of the past and focused on the present.
“The house isn’t yours to ban me from, Victoria,” I said quietly.
“Oh, but it is,” she replied, and I could hear the triumphant smile in her voice. “Your father signed it over to me last month. It’s mine now, and I don’t want you anywhere near it. You’re just like your mother, you know. Always thinking you’re entitled to everything.”
That jab was so predictable it barely stung anymore.
