Inheritance of deceit

Chapter Five: Calculated Indifference

I found Siren in my bathroom the next morning, rifling through my things like she owned them - which, in her mind, she probably did. My cheap drugstore makeup was scattered across the marble counter like fallen soldiers, looking particularly pathetic next to her array of crystal perfume bottles that caught the morning light.

"God, Nuella," she said, wrinkling her perfectly powdered nose at my shampoo bottle as if it had personally offended her. "Do you actually use this stuff? It's like you're trying to be poor."

I thought about Antonia's jacket hanging in my closet like a secret, his note burning a hole in my pocket. Six hours until I could get answers. Six hours of playing nice with the people who might have killed my father.

"Some of us have bigger problems than designer labels," I said, carefully picking up my scattered makeup, each piece a small reminder of the life I used to have before everything changed.

She laughed - that fake rich-girl laugh she'd perfected somewhere between finishing school and becoming her mother's clone. "Right. Like trying to catch a billionaire's attention?"

My stomach tightened, but I kept my face blank, years of practice hiding my emotions serving me well. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please." She stepped closer, her expensive perfume making my eyes water, the scent as aggressive as her personality. "I saw you last night, getting all damsel-in-distress in the rain. But let's be real - men like him don't slum it with charity cases."

The doorbell cut through our conversation like a knife, its chime echoing through the hollow halls. Through my window, I watched a delivery guy struggling with the biggest flower arrangement I'd ever seen, a cascade of colors that seemed to dwarf him entirely.

"Those are obviously for me," Siren said, practically running downstairs, her silk robe floating behind her like a victory flag.

Anabella was already signing for them in the foyer, playing the perfect hostess even with no audience. Every movement calculated, every smile measured.

"'To the lady of the house,'" she read aloud, her voice dripping honey. "How thoughtful."

Siren snatched the card like it might disappear, her manicured nails flashing like tiny weapons. "From Antonia, obviously. Mother, we should invite him for breakfast."

But before she could reach for her phone, another delivery arrived. Then another. By noon, our foyer looked like a florist's warehouse had exploded. Roses, orchids, lilies - probably worth more than my yearly allowance. The scent was overwhelming, almost suffocating, like the house was drowning in perfume.

All addressed to Siren.

None from Antonia.

"He's playing hard to get," she insisted, changing her outfit for the third time, each ensemble more desperate than the last. "Men like that enjoy the chase."

That afternoon, she orchestrated a "casual" run-in with him at the local café. I was there first, hiding behind a book like a shield, watching her performance unfold like a predictable play.

"Antonia!" she called out, like it was the biggest surprise in the world. "What a coincidence!"

He looked up from his laptop, his eyes scanning past her like she was furniture, like she didn't even exist in his world. When they found me in the corner, something changed in them - recognition, interest, secrets burning beneath the surface.

"Miss Anderson," he said, standing with fluid grace.

"Please, call me Siren." She touched his arm, her fingers lingering like spiderwebs. "We're neighbors now."

"Excuse me," he said, gathering his things with decisive movements. "I have a meeting."

He walked past her, stopping at my table. "The roses in your garden," he said quietly, his voice meant only for me. "They're beautiful at sunset."

My heart raced against my ribs like a trapped bird. Six PM. The rose garden. Our secret meeting.

Back home, Siren threw the kind of tantrum I hadn't seen since we were kids, her carefully constructed facade crumbling like sand.

"Why?" she screamed at her mirror, as if it might hold answers. "I'm beautiful! I'm perfect! What's wrong with him?"

"Darling," Anabella soothed, her voice silk over steel, "men like Antonia require... strategy."

I slipped away, checking my watch. 5:55 PM. Time moving too fast and too slow all at once.

The rose garden was Papa's favorite place, his sanctuary. Mr. Rodriguez still kept it perfect, like Papa had never left, like time had stopped here among the blooms. Antonia was already there, his tall frame dark against the sunset's flames.

"The flowers you sent Siren," I said, stepping into our shared secret. "They're driving her crazy."

"I didn't send them." He turned to face me, his expression grave. "Your stepmother did, to protect your stepsister's ego."

"How do you know all this?"

"I know many things, Nuella." He stepped closer, his presence electric. "About your father. About his death. About what they're trying to do to you."

My breath caught in my throat. "Tell me."

"Not here." He glanced at the house, ever watchful. "We're being watched."

A curtain moved in an upstairs window, a shadow betraying our observer.

"Tomorrow," he said, his hand brushing mine like a promise. "I'll send a car. Wear my jacket."

"Why are you helping me?"

His smile was sad, weighted with knowledge. "Your father was a good man. He deserved better than what they did to him."

Later, I heard Siren crying in her room, her sobs echoing through the walls we used to share secrets through. Part of me felt guilty - we used to be friends, once, before Anabella poisoned everything. Before Papa got sick. Before he died.

"He has to notice me," she sobbed to her mother. "He has to!"

But I knew he wouldn't. Because whatever game Antonia Romano was playing, Siren wasn't even part of it.

And tomorrow, I'd finally find out why.