Leah
The moment I stepped downstairs the next morning, there she was—Ella, preened and polished like some overpriced showroom mannequin. Silver designer gown hugging every curve, diamonds and sapphires dripping from her neck and ears, those smug silver-gray eyes glittering with pure show-off energy.
Last night she’d played the damsel, collapsing dramatically like her spine had evaporated. This morning? Not even a limp. Her “condition” really was convenient—on when it suited her, off when she wanted to strut.
“Sister,” she cooed, widening her eyes in mock surprise, “you’re not ready yet? The banquet starts in three hours. Don’t tell me you don’t have anything appropriate to wear.” She tilted her head, all faux sweetness. “I could lend you something if you’re desperate.”
I almost laughed
