Chapter 1
My name was Claire Morgan. But my real name was Elaine Moon.
On my first day back with the Morgan family, my biological parents made me put on a cleaner's uniform.
"From now on, you're in charge of the first floor," Maria said.
Maria Morgan, my biological mother, looked me over like I was a piece of furniture.
"Welcome home. But just so we're clear, Olivia is the princess of this family. The one we actually raised."
Olivia Morgan sat in her wheelchair, a fancy wool blanket over her legs, and gave me a victory smile.
"Mom, Dad, it's all my fault. I took Claire's place," she sobbed.
"No, honey. You are our daughter," Maria said.
She rushed to her side to comfort her, then turned and glared at me.
"You upset Olivia. Say sorry right now," she snapped.
*****
Me? I'd spent twenty hours on a hard seat train from Amiston, still carrying the scent of barbecue from the grill back home.
"How big is the first floor?" I asked.
Maria paused, a bit taken aback. "About 500 square yards."
"Alright, what's the hourly rate? Do you pay daily or monthly?" I pulled out my phone, ready to record.
"So you know, I was the manager of a chain barbecue joint back home, making 8000 a month with free room and board. If you can't match that, I might have to reconsider."
Richard Morgan, my biological father, slammed his hand on the table. "How dare you? This is your home."
"Is it?" I glanced around the three-story villa. It looked more like a high-end hotel lobby than a house. "Then why is my room shoved right next to the basement storage room, while Olivia gets 90 square yards and her own walk-in closet?"
The room went dead silent.
Olivia let out a perfectly timed cough, her slender fingers pressed to her chest. "Mom, Dad, please don't blame Elaine. She's not used to things here yet. It's my fault, I took her spot."
"Nonsense. You're our daughter." Maria quickly crouched down beside Olivia's wheelchair to comfort her, then turned to me with a furious look. "Look what you've done to your sister. Apologize right now."
I'd seen this kind of drama before, back at the video rental shop next to my barbecue joint in Amiston. The only difference was that those were soap operas on TV. Now? I was living it for real.
"Alright, I apologize," I said. "Sorry for being so blunt. Here's the deal. I can handle the cleaning, but it's gotta be at the going rate. Deep cleaning for the villa is 400 a session, once a week. Anything extra, you'll have to pay more."
Olivia's cough cut off abruptly.
Richard's face turned gray. "You're unbelievable."
"Oh, and by the way, since this is my home, I should have inheritance rights, right? According to the law, I'm the first in line to inherit. So, in theory, Olivia and I have equal rights to the inheritance, don't we?"
My law degree wasn't for show.
Olivia's face went ghostly pale.
In the end, I was kept on as a household assistant, making 2000 a month, with a place to stay but no meals, down in the basement.
Meanwhile, Olivia kept playing the role of the disabled heiress, getting wheeled around the garden every day to bask in the sun, like a hothouse flower under constant care.
While I was cleaning Olivia's room, I came across some pretty interesting stuff.
There was a massage device for legs under the mattress, a pair of sneakers deep in the closet, and in the trash can, a shredded brochure for a Miracle Standing Program from some rehab center.
But the real kicker? While dusting off the trophies on her bookshelf, I found the description for one of them, the First Prize in the City Youth Innovation Competition.
The description was identical to a project my cousin had published in her school magazine three years ago, down to the typos.
I snapped a pic and sent it to my cousin.
Then I went back to mopping and dusting, all the while listening to Olivia upstairs, cooing in her sugary-sweet voice as she begged her mom to feed her fruit.
*****
At night, I went back to the basement and checked my phone.
Allan Moon, my adoptive dad, texted: [Elaine, if you're feeling wronged, come home. My barbecue kingdom isn't gonna run itself, you know.]
Louise Moon, my adoptive mom, followed up: [Your dad's bragging after a few drinks, but that land we own is the real deal. Someone offered 60 thousand per acre to buy it, but I turned them down. I'm saving it for you.]
I smiled and replied: [No rush. The show's getting started.]
Another message popped up, this time from my childhood buddy, Charles Stone: [Elaine, I got your battle outfit ready. Bright red with sequins, guaranteed to blind the whole crowd. And I found a drum line, too. These guys are pros.]
Sent him a thumbs-up emoji.
The moonlight spilled into the basement as I lay on the stiff mattress, replaying Maria's words from earlier. She said, "You should be grateful. If we hadn't found you, you'd still be stuck at some barbecue joint for the rest of your days."
I owed my adoptive parents. They taught me kindness, but also how to bite back. I owed those greasy days for turning me into solid steel. And a special shout-out to Sabina, for welcoming me with such low-level tactics.
This drama? I was in no rush. A good show needed a solid setup, and when it was time to deliver the smackdown, I gotta wait till everyone had lined up for it. That was when it really hit.
*****
On my third day cleaning Morgan Manor, I discovered Olivia's secret room.
Secret might be a stretch. It was right at the back of her walk-in closet, hidden behind a door disguised as a full-length mirror. While wiping the mirror's edge, I felt an odd seam with my fingertips. A light push, and the door opened.
Inside was a 12-square-yard space set up like a mini surveillance room. The walls were plastered with photos, me and my adoptive parents outside the barbecue joint, my high school graduation pic, and a selfie of me buried in law books at the college library.
In the center, a long table held three laptops, all powered on and ready to go.
I slipped on a pair of disposable gloves I always kept handy and started checking out the recent browsing history. Holy crap!
The first laptop was packed with encrypted folders labeled Morgan Group Financial Loopholes, Board Member Secrets, and Competitor Intel.
The second laptop had every social app open and logged in. Olivia had at least five online identities going at once.
It included the pitiful disabled beauty, an anonymous philanthropist, and an ice crusader blogger who specialized in blowing the whistle on corporate secrets, especially those of Morgan Group's rivals.
But the third laptop was the real showstopper. It was packed with video files, all sorted by date. I picked the latest one at random.
On the screen, Olivia was in workout gear, moving around a room that looked like a private rehab center, walking, squatting, jogging without a hint of trouble.
The video was from last Wednesday, the same day she took a turn for the worse at Morgan Manor, spending the whole day in bed while Maria personally fed her soup.
I kept digging and found a folder labeled Jump Plan. Inside, it detailed everything. How she chose the angle, calculated the height, arranged cushioning, a shopping list for fake blood packs, and special effects makeup.
There was also a subfolder labeled Backup Plan. Repairable Leg Fracture Study.
She'd mapped out every detail; this was her own personal drama, and she played every part. I pulled out my phone, switched to video mode, and filmed everything on the screen. Then I backed it all up to my encrypted cloud storage.
Right then, footsteps echoed from outside the door.