The Real Heiress Watched in Silence

4

The next morning, I packed up to leave.

I moved fast and quiet, the way I'd learned to do everything — fold the clothes, stack the books, zip the suitcase. No tears, no lingering. If I was going to go, I was going to go clean.

Chloe stood in my doorway in pink pajamas, looking innocent. "Sis, are you leaving?"

She leaned against the doorframe, all soft and sleepy-eyed, like a little sister who'd come to say goodbye. I wasn't fooled for a second.

"None of your business." I kept packing.

I didn't turn around. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Sis," she stepped inside, voice soft, "you don't have to act so strong. Being rejected by your own parents must hurt so bad, doesn't it?"

The words slithered in, aimed straight for the soft spot she imagined I had. She thought if she pressed hard enough, I'd c***k. She thought wrong.

I stopped and turned to look at her.

She went on. "Last night Mom, Dad and our brother were discussing sending you away. You must be heartbroken, right?

It's okay. You can cry."

There it was. The performance. The sweet voice, the tilted head, the wide eyes full of false sympathy. She wanted me to break down so she could comfort me, so she could be the hero and I could be the broken thing she'd always told herself I was.

"Were you eavesdropping outside the door?"

She smiled sweetly. "I was just passing by.

Sis, do you know why they don't love you?"

I looked at her with interest. "Why?"

I didn't flinch. I didn't even blink. I just asked, because I was genuinely curious how deep she'd dig.

"Because I've lived in this house for eighteen years!

My photos cover the walls. My trophies fill the shelves. They remember every one of my birthdays.

And you," she paused, "you have nothing."

She let the word land. Nothing. It was supposed to cut, supposed to remind me of every empty birthday, every cold night, every time I'd looked around and found no one there.

"So?"

She leaned in, lowering her voice. "There's no place for you in this house. Even if you're the real one, you're still unnecessary."

Her face was inches from mine now, and for the first time, the mask was fully off. This was the real Chloe — petty, vicious, drunk on eighteen years of being the center of the universe.

I laughed.

The sound surprised her. She'd expected tears, maybe, or anger. Not laughter.

So she dropped the mask this fast.

"Chloe," I lowered my voice too, "do you know what DNA is?"

She froze.

The word landed like a slap, and I watched her brain scramble to catch up.

"DNA is proof of blood. No matter how many years you've lived here, no matter how many of your photos cover the walls, you're still fake. And me —"

I pointed at myself.

"I don't have to do anything. I'm just real."

Her face changed.

The color drained out of it. She'd built her whole identity on being the Sinclair daughter, and I'd just shown her the one thing she could never change. Photos can be taken down. Trophies can be moved. But blood — blood was permanent, and hers was wrong.

I'd struck at the one thing she couldn't fake, couldn't buy, couldn't cry her way out of. All her photos, all her trophies, all her years of being the perfect daughter — none of it mattered, because none of it could change what was written in her blood. She was the fake. I was the real. And no amount of tears would ever reverse that.

"Also," I grabbed my suitcase, "who told you I was moving out? I'm just going to school to grab something. This is my home. Why would I leave?"

I hoisted the bag onto my shoulder and pushed past her. Her face, as I went, was a picture I'd remember for a long time.

She'd thought she'd won. She'd come into my room this morning, certain she could break me, certain she could drive me out with a few well-aimed words. And instead, I'd turned the whole thing around and shown her that she was the one who didn't belong.

I carried my box downstairs and ran into Oliver heading out.

He was already in his coat, keys in hand, the picture of a man on his way to conquer the world. And then he saw my suitcase.

He saw my suitcase and frowned. "Where to?"

"School." I answered shortly.

I didn't stop walking.

"I'll drive you."

"No thanks."

"I said I'll drive you." His tone was firm.

There it was again — that thing he did, where he turned a suggestion into an order and expected the world to fall in line. The great CEO, used to being obeyed.

I shrugged. Whatever.

If he wanted to play chauffeur, I wasn't going to fight him over it. I'd learned to pick my battles, and this one wasn't worth the energy.

In the car, he didn't say a word.

The engine hummed, the city slid past the window, and the silence between us grew thick enough to choke on. I could feel him glancing at me from the corner of his eye, working up to something.

I couldn't be bothered either.

I watched the buildings blur by and let him sit with his own discomfort. He'd started this ride; he could figure out what to say.

Near campus, he suddenly said, "About last night, don't take it to heart."

There it was. The olive branch, offered so late and so small it barely counted.

"Oh."

"Mom and Dad don't not love you. It's just Chloe really is sick and needs looking after."

The double negative hung in the air. Don't not love. Even his apology couldn't commit to the word "love" without a qualifier.

"Oh."

"Can you stop saying 'oh'?"

His voice sharpened, and I finally turned to look at him. There it was — the real irritation, the thing he'd been holding back the whole ride. He didn't want to understand me. He wanted me to be easy.

I turned to him. "Then what do you want me to say? 'It's fine, brother, I understand'? 'I'll take good care of my little sister Chloe'?"

The words dripped with sarcasm, and I watched them land. He flinched, just barely, like I'd hit a nerve.

He rubbed his forehead, annoyed. "Can't you just be normal?"

"What's normal?"

"Crying and faking illness whenever she wants, like Chloe — is that normal?"

"Chloe is not faking!"

The words exploded out of him, and there it was — the one thing he'd defend to the death. Not me. Never me. Her.

I rolled my eyes internally.

"Is she faking or not? You tell me."

"Oliver, are you actually dumb or just playing dumb? A person having a heart attack who can control the exact timing, and still cry so prettily — does that sound possible to you?"

He gripped the steering wheel.

His knuckles went white. The knuckles of a man who didn't want to hear the truth, because the truth meant the last eighteen years had been a lie, and he'd been its biggest fool.

"You don't know Chloe at all."

"I really don't," I got out of the car.

I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight, ready to be done with this conversation and this man and this whole exhausting morning.

"But I know what a real heart attack looks like. My foster mom's sister has a heart condition. When it hits, her face goes blue and she can't even talk. Not like Chloe, wailing her lungs out."

I slammed the door shut.

The sound echoed down the street, a punctuation mark on a conversation that had gone nowhere.

Oliver sat in the car for a long time without leaving.

I didn't look back. But I could feel him there, parked at the curb, watching me walk away. Let him watch. Let him think. It wouldn't change anything.