Chapter 2

The townhouse my mother left behind was on the Upper East Side.

I pushed the door open, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon light. I pulled back the heavy drapes. The trees in Central Park looked exactly the same as they had when I left.

Unpacking, my fingertips brushed against a mahogany box.

Inside was a family portrait taken when I was ten.

My mother sat in the center, wearing vintage silk, smiling softly. My father stood behind her, hands resting on her shoulders. I was making a silly face at the camera, my hair in braids. Lucas stood next to me, playfully pressing down on my head, a grin on his face.

The sunlight was perfect. Everyone was smiling.

I traced my father's face in the photograph.

The spring I turned sixteen, my mother passed away.

Three days after her funeral, my father brought a girl home.

She wore a washed-out dress, looking so thin a gust of wind could blow her away. She hid behind my father, looking at us with wide, terrified eyes.

My father's voice was hoarse. "This is Mia. Her mother was an old friend of mine. She just passed away."

"From now on, she's your adopted sister."

Lucas and I exchanged a look. We felt sorry for her.

I gave her my favorite dresses. Lucas drove her to our prep school every day. We genuinely wanted to give her a home.

Until that afternoon.

Walking past my father's study, I heard him sighing through the cracked door.

"Mia, your mother Kate left us too soon. She left you all alone."

"I promised her I would take good care of you."

Kate. That was the name my mother had mentioned during her one and only emotional breakdown.

That woman was my father's greatest romantic regret, the first love he could never forget.

Through the gap in the door, I saw my father pull Mia into a hug, his eyes red. "Your mother was the biggest regret of my life. Mia, I will make it up to you a thousand times over."

I leaned against the doorframe, a chill seeping into my bones.

Mia wasn't some helpless orphan. She was the continuation of my father's tragic love story.

That night was the first time I snapped at Mia.

She had gone through my diary—the very last gift my mother had given me.

"Who said you could touch my things? Get out."

She immediately played the victim, collapsing onto the rug and bursting into fake sobs.

Later that evening, I went to find Lucas to tell him what I had overheard in the study. But when I pushed his door open, Mia was already there, sobbing.

"Lucas, does Chloe hate me? I can move out..."

Lucas gently rubbed her back. "Don't overthink it. Chloe just has a bad temper. I'll go talk to her."

He looked up, saw me, and frowned. "Chloe, be nicer to Mia. She's been through enough."

In that exact moment, I knew I had lost my brother.

Everything happened quickly after that.

My south-facing bedroom went to Mia because it was "better for her recovery."

My Ragdoll cat of five years was sent away because Mia casually mentioned, "I think I'm allergic to cat hair."

In the elite circles of the Upper East Side, I became the vicious, spoiled heiress. And Mia was forever the innocent, fragile adopted sister who needed protecting.

I slammed the photo frame face down on the desk.

Outside the window, Manhattan was lighting up. The city was as mesmerizing as ever.

But the Chloe who would cry and demand justice had died a long time ago.

The woman I was now simply didn't care.