Chapter 2

I copied what everyone else was doing and picked up the smallest fork, only to accidentally fling the food off my plate and onto the tablecloth.

A few soft giggles rippled around the table. And my face burned.

"This lobster with mango sauce is slippery, honestly," Andrea said, casually setting down her knife and fork. "The first time I had it in Paris, I spilled the sauce all over my Chanel coat."

"The first time I tried it in Parew, I splashed the sauce on my Chanel blazer," she added with a self-deprecating smile.

The guests laughed, attention shifting to her story about life abroad.

I quickly scooped up the rebellious piece of seafood with a spoon and stuffed it in my mouth, chewing hard.

When dessert came, I mumbled something about the bathroom and escaped the table.

At the end of the second-floor hallway, the balcony offered a good hiding spot. The night breeze cooled the heat on my face.

Down in the garden, a few staff were cleaning up around the barbecue grill.

"Mrs. Gibson said they're turning the east guest room into Ms. Gibson's bedroom…"

"That tiny one? Andrea's walk-in closet is bigger than that."

"Shhh. You don't get it. Blood is one thing, feelings are another…"

I held my breath until their footsteps faded. The east guest room?

This morning, Una showed me the big south-facing bedroom and said it had been redecorated to my liking.

When I came back to the ballroom, most guests had already left.

Jerry was at the door saying goodbye, with Una and Andrea standing beside him, smiling at everyone. I quietly headed toward the stairs—then paused as I heard voices from the study behind a half-closed door.

"We'll file the legal paperwork, but no matter what, Andrea is still our daughter—the one we truly love."

"She's so sensitive, I'm sure she felt it today…" Una's voice cracked. "She held back her tears the whole time…"

I froze where I stood. Then Andrea's voice came from behind me. "Claire, do you want me to run a bath for you?"

I bolted up the stairs without answering, shoved open a random door, and slipped inside—

It was a spacious bedroom with lilac bedding and a vanity full of expensive makeup.

A giant photo of Andrea in a ballet costume hung on the wall.

The walk-in closet door was half open—it really was bigger than the orphanage's shared bathroom.

I backed out and ran into the butler in the hallway.

"Ms. Gibson, your room is this way." He led me to the other end of the hall and opened a door—about a hundred square feet, facing east. The window looked straight at the wall of the next villa.

On the nightstand sat a white envelope with my enrollment papers for St. Land.

Under the "Emergency Contact" section on the student form, someone had typed in "Andrea Gibson" and her phone number.

I sat on the edge of the bed, crumpling the envelope in my hand.

Outside, the moon disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds.

I shoved the last piece of my school uniform into my backpack, and the zipper groaned under the strain.

The girls' uniform at St. Land was a light blue shirt paired with a gray pleated skirt. It was softer than anything I'd ever worn in my life—and yet, it made my skin crawl.

"Ms. Gibson, the car is ready." The butler reminded me softly from outside the door.

I glanced at my phone—7:15. Andrea was probably already in the car.

Last night over dinner, Dad announced that from now on, the two of us would ride to school together. Said it would "bring us closer." I nearly stabbed my own hand with a fork.

The black Benz was parked in front of the villa. The tinted windows blocked everything, but I could picture Andrea sitting inside.

She was probably sitting all proper again—knees together, hands resting gently on her bag—like some model waiting for a magazine shoot.

I yanked the door open and tossed my backpack onto the middle seat on purpose, hard, before climbing in.

Sure enough, Andrea sat by the window. Sunlight streamed through the glass, casting golden flecks across her face.

Andrea had her hair in a high ponytail today, showing off the graceful curve of her neck.

"Good morning." Andrea smiled and handed me a paper bag. "I brought an extra sandwich."

I stared at the bag, with its fancy café logo, and my stomach growled in betrayal.

I'd snuck out at five to avoid the family drama at breakfast. Now I was starving.

"No thanks." I turned to look out the window. "Don't feel like getting poisoned today."

Her hand froze in mid-air, then slowly pulled back.

The car pulled out of the neighborhood. Silence filled the space between us, thick like tar.

The gates of St. Land were bigger than the entire orphanage I used to live in.

Fountains, lawns, clusters of gothic buildings, and students in matching uniforms walking in pairs or groups—it looked like a scene straight out of a teen drama set.

Eventually, the car stopped in front of the main academic building.

I'd barely opened the door when I heard the whispers.

"That's Andrea!"

"She looks amazing as always."

"Who's the country girl next to her? A new maid?"

My nails dug into my palms.

Andrea acted like she didn't hear a thing. She got out gracefully, nodding and smiling at the classmates who greeted her.

I stayed a few steps behind, keeping my distance.

The classroom plaque for Junior Class A glinted with gold.

The homeroom teacher, Serena Miller, wore gold-rimmed glasses and had this habit of tucking her hair behind her ear while talking, even though her hair was too short to fall in her face in the first place.

"Class, this is Claire Gibson, our new transfer student." Serena gave my shoulder a quick pat. "Let's all help her settle in."

Scattered applause followed.