The Three Alpha Brothers Want Me

Sophia woke before her alarm, as she always did. The house was quiet at six. She liked it that way. Grey light slipped through the tall windows of her bedroom, and somewhere below, the kitchen staff were already moving, soft footsteps and the clink of porcelain. She dressed in a plain cream blouse and navy trousers, tied her hair back and checked her reflection once. Neat. Nothing that would draw attention. In this house, attention rarely ended well for her. The mansion looked like a magazine spread. Marble floors. A staircase wide enough for a wedding. A crystal chandelier her father had imported from Milan the year he remarried. Sophia had grown up beneath it, and lately she felt smaller under it every year. In the kitchen, Marta was struggling with the breakfast tray, her mouth tight with pain. "Let me," Sophia said, already lifting it. "Miss Sophia, no. Your stepmother will see." "Then she'll see me being useful." Sophia smiled. "Is your back still bad?" Marta hesitated. "It comes and goes." "You should rest today. I'll tell the others to manage the silver." "You cannot give orders in this house, child." "I can ask nicely." Marta laughed despite herself, then caught Sophia's wrist gently. "Eat something first. You never do." "I will later," Sophia lied, and carried the tray out. The dining room was already occupied. Her father sat at the head of the table, reading the financial news on his tablet, his silver-streaked hair perfectly combed. He looked up when she entered, gave a small nod, and returned to the screen. That was the extent of their morning ritual. Once, he had asked about her day. Once, he had called her his sunshine. Sophia could not remember exactly when that had stopped, only that it had. "You're late with the tea." Her stepmother sat at his right hand in a pale silk dress, back straight, lipstick flawless. She did not look up from her phone. "It's ten to eight," Sophia said calmly. "I'm early." "Then be quiet about it." Sophia set the tray down. "Yes, ma'am." She poured her stepmother's tea first, then her father, and took the farthest seat at the table. Her chair was always the one nearest the kitchen door. She had never asked why. Heels clicked on the stairs. Bright, quick, cheerful. "Good morning, Mummy! Good morning, Daddy!" Chloe swept in like sunshine on legs, blonde curls bouncing, a designer bag already on her arm. She kissed her mother's cheek, squeezed Sophia's father's shoulder, and finally turned her wide, warm smile on Sophia. "Sophia, you look lovely today. Is that new?" It was three years old. "Thank you, Chloe." "Oh, don't mention it." She sat down and began to chat about a charity luncheon, a friend's engagement, a boutique that had promised her first pick of the new season. Her mother listened with visible delight. Her father made small noises of approval. Sophia buttered a piece of toast and said nothing, because nobody had asked her anything. Then Chloe stood. "Mummy, let me pour yours. That teapot is far too heavy for Sophia." It was not. But the teapot was a delicate antique, white and gold, painted with tiny roses. It belonged to her stepmother's mother. It sat in a glass cabinet all year and came out only for special occasions, which this was not. Sophia had not brought it. Chloe had, this morning, before anyone else was awake. Sophia noticed that now. A cold thread of unease ran down her spine. "Chloe, I can manage—" "Oh, it's no trouble!" Chloe reached for the pot. Her elbow caught the edge of the tray. Sophia moved on instinct, hand out to steady it, but Chloe's fingers pushed just a little harder than the accident needed. The teapot fell. It hit the marble. Porcelain scattered across the floor. Hot tea splashed over Sophia's shoes and Chloe's hem, and the whole room went still. "My mother's teapot," her stepmother whispered. Chloe's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears so quickly that Sophia almost admired it. "Oh, Mummy, I'm so sorry, I only wanted to help. Sophia was holding it and I..." She let the sentence break off, trembling. Every head turned to Sophia. "I didn't touch the teapot," Sophia said quietly. "It was Chloe who brought it." "Are you calling her a liar?" Her stepmother's voice was low and very cold. "No, ma'am. I'm saying it wasn't me. But I'm sorry it broke. I know what it meant to you." "You know nothing about what it meant to me." Her stepmother rose slowly, smoothing her dress. "That teapot survived two wars and a move across an ocean. It survived until you." "Ma'am, I…" "Don't answer back." The words landed. Sophia lowered her eyes. Her fingers, hidden under the table, curled tightly into her palm. She looked at her father. He had put his tablet down. For a moment, something moved across his face. Discomfort, perhaps. Even guilt. His mouth opened. "Enough," he said. That was all. He said it to the room, not to anyone in particular, and picked up his tablet again. Sophia felt something small and quiet crack inside her chest. She smiled anyway. "I'll clean it up." "You'll do more than that." Her stepmother sat back down and lifted her cup, as though the morning were perfectly ordinary. "Your allowance is suspended this month. And you will not attend Saturday's dinner. I won't have you embarrassing this family in front of guests." "Mummy, that seems a bit harsh," Chloe murmured, dabbing her eyes. Sophia knew a performance when she saw one. "She needs to learn responsibility." "Yes, ma'am," Sophia said. She knelt and began collecting the broken pieces. A sliver of porcelain bit into her thumb, and a bead of red welled up. She wiped it against her sleeve and kept going. Marta appeared silently at her side with a dustpan, her eyes shining with anger she did not dare voice. "Thank you," Sophia whispered. Above her, Chloe's heels clicked away, light and satisfied. ~~~ Sophia found her in the upstairs corridor twenty minutes later. She had not meant to. She was carrying the last of the wrapped shards to her room to see whether any of them could be glued, and there was Chloe, leaning against the wall beside the window, scrolling through her phone as if nothing had happened. "You did that on purpose," Sophia said. Chloe did not look up. The sweetness had gone from her face like a mask slipped off. What was underneath was flatter, older, and far more bored. "Careful, Sophia. Mummy's in a mood." "That teapot meant something to her. You knew that." "Of course I knew. That was the point." Chloe finally lifted her eyes. They were pale and very clear. "Did you see her face? Priceless." "Why?" "Why?" Chloe laughed, a soft, pretty sound. "Because you stand there with your little polite voice and your little polite smile, and everyone thinks you're so *good*. Marta adores you. The drivers adore you. Even the gardener asked how you were last week. Nobody asks how I am." "That isn't my fault." "It isn't yours to fix either, which is exactly why it's so satisfying." Chloe pushed off the wall and stepped closer, dropping her voice. "Daddy barely looks at you now. Have you noticed? He didn't say a single word for you today. He never does. You're furniture, Sophia. Expensive furniture that used to belong to someone he loved." Sophia's throat tightened. She did not let it show. "Are you finished?" "For now." Chloe patted her cheek, lightly, almost affectionately, and walked away humming. Sophia stood in the corridor for a long moment. Then she went into her room, closed the door, set the broken porcelain on her desk, and sat on the edge of the bed with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She did not cry. She never did in this house. She had learned early that tears only gave them something else to use. Instead she opened the drawer of her bedside table and took out a small photograph, worn soft at the edges. A woman with Sophia's eyes, laughing at something beyond the camera. "I'm fine, Mum," she said quietly. "Truly." The photograph, as always, said nothing. ~~~ The house slept by midnight. Rain had begun to tap against the windows, a slow, uncertain drizzle that would not stay uncertain for long. Down the east corridor, a bedroom door opened without a sound. Chloe stepped out barefoot, her phone glowing faintly in her hand. She had changed into a black silk robe. Her hair was loose. Her smile was not sweet at all. She crossed the hall to her mother's dressing room and slid open the second drawer of the vanity, where a small brass key had always been hidden beneath a folded scarf. Her mother thought no one knew about it. Chloe knew about everything. The key was cool against her palm. She turned it over once, thoughtfully, then went down the stairs on the balls of her feet, past the darkened dining room, past the ghost-white shapes of the covered furniture, and stopped outside her stepfather's study. The lock clicked open. Inside, behind a framed painting of the Manhattan skyline, a steel safe waited. Chloe already knew the code. It was her mother's birthday. The door swung open. She reached in and drew out a slim blue velvet case, and when she lifted the lid, diamonds caught the faint light and threw it back. Chloe looked at them for a long moment. Then she closed the case, slipped it into the pocket of her robe, and climbed the stairs again, past her own door, past her mother's, all the way to the end of the corridor where a narrow strip of light showed beneath one last door. Sophia's room. She never locked it. She had never had anything worth hiding. Chloe reached for the handle.