Chapter 1

"You know your sister's allergic to seafood, right?" Olivia said. "She can't even be around it."

My mom, Olivia Jennings, stood in the kitchen doorway, holding the plate of garlic butter shrimp I'd just finished cooking. Her tone was calm, like she was reading off a grocery list.

"So?" I asked.

I wiped my hands, and the steam had turned my fingertips red.

"So take this to your room," she said. She paused. "Don't let Grace see it. It'll upset her."

I stared at her and then at the plate in her hands. I'd picked the biggest shrimp, deveined them, sautéed the garlic until it was golden, and let the pasta soak up all the buttery flavor.

This was the first meal I'd cooked since coming to the Jennings family, and I'd made it to celebrate being "home" for a month.

"Mom," I said quietly, "I'm allergic too."

She froze for a second, and then she laughed. It was soft and tired, like I was telling a joke.

"Emily, stop," she said. "You grew up in a fishing village. You're allergic to seafood? Who are you kidding?"

She set the plate on the counter. Before she turned to leave, she added, "Oh, your dad has a business dinner tonight, so he won't be home. It'll just be the three of us. You, me, and Grace.

"Just eat something else," she said.

The kitchen door closed softly behind her.

*****

My name is Emily Jennings.

A month ago, I was still Emily Carter from the fishing village.

Carter was my adoptive father, William's, last name, and my birth mother gave me Emily. When she abandoned me at the orphanage, she tucked a note in my blanket with just that one word written on it: [Emily.]

William said the handwriting was elegant, too refined for an ordinary village woman.

I was only three days old when he found me, and my umbilical cord hadn't even fallen off yet.

He worked as a caretaker at the orphanage and barely scraped by. He was in his thirties and couldn't afford to get married, but he raised me anyway.

Last year, he was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. Before he died, he grabbed my hand and pressed that yellowed note into my palm.

His voice was barely a whisper when he said, "Emily, go find your real parents. They must be doing well."

On the back of the note, there was an address written in faded ink and two words: [Jennings Manor.]

I knelt beside his hospital bed, and tears fell on his frail hands.

I choked out, "Dad, you're my only father."

He shook his head with his eyes closed, and his last words came out barely audible.

He whispered, "Go. Don't spend your whole life poor like me."

After I finished the funeral arrangements, I packed everything I owned into a faded canvas bag. I boarded the long-distance bus to the state capital. Inside the bag, I had my ID, my high school diploma, six thousand dollars I'd saved from part-time jobs, and that note.

Jennings Manor sat in the estate district on the west side of town.

I stood outside the wrought-iron gates and stared at the manicured lawn, the three-story mansion, and the black sedan parked by the garage. For the first time, I understood what people meant by "a different world."

My hand trembled as I pressed the doorbell.

A woman in her early fifties answered the door. She wore a champagne silk suit, and a strand of pearls gleamed at her throat.

She stared at me for a long time, so long I thought she was going to shut the door in my face.

Then her eyes went red.

Her voice shook as she whispered, "The resemblance. It's uncanny."

A middle-aged man in a tailored suit appeared behind her. His features carried the calm authority of someone used to being in charge. When he looked at my face, he visibly flinched.

He said quietly, "Come in."

The day the DNA results came back, Olivia held me and cried for an entire hour. She was my biological mother.

She kept whispering, "My daughter. My poor daughter."

She stroked my rough, calloused hands over and over, and her tears soaked into my sleeve.

She said softly, "You've been through so much."

My biological father, Felix Jennings, sat across from me on the sofa and smoked his cigar in silence.

After a long while, he finally spoke. "Starting today, you're Emily Jennings. You have a younger sister named Grace. She's two years younger than you. She's not well, so go easy on her. We won't talk about the past anymore. This is your home now."

He said it calmly, as if he were announcing a business decision.

I opened my mouth to say thank you, to tell him I'd try to be a good daughter. But in the end, I nodded. My throat felt tight, and I couldn't get a single word out.

Grace showed up at dinner.

She wore a pale pink loungewear set, and her long hair fell in soft waves. Her skin was flawless, and she looked like a delicate porcelain doll.

When she saw me, she froze at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes reddened quickly.

She choked out, "Emily. You're finally home."

She ran over and threw her arms around me. She smelled like faint perfume mixed with something herbal and bitter.

Olivia quickly pulled her back. "Be careful, Grace. Your heart can't handle too much excitement."

Grace leaned against my shoulder, and her tears soaked into my collar. She sobbed, "I missed you so much. All these years, I dreamed about you every night. I dreamed that you were out there suffering."

My body went stiff, and my hands hung in mid-air.

I didn't know whether to hug her back.

Olivia helped Grace to the sofa and gave her medicine, speaking to her in a soft, soothing voice.

Felix sighed and looked at me. "Emily, your sister can't handle stress. Try not to upset her, okay?"

I stood there and watched the three of them. I suddenly felt like I had wandered onto a stage where I didn't belong.

The spotlight was on them, and I was standing in the shadows with no lines to say.