Inheritance of deceit

Chapter Two: Shadows of Greed

The morning of Papa's funeral, I couldn't button my dress. My hands kept shaking, and the black fabric felt too tight, like it was choking me. The dress had fit perfectly when I bought it last month for the winter formal - amazing how grief could shrink things. I was staring at my reflection - pale face, dark circles under my eyes - when Siren banged on my door with enough force to rattle the antique doorknob.

"Move it!" she shouted, her voice piercing through the heavy wood. "Mom says you're making everyone late."

The hallway mirror caught her reflection - perfect makeup, perfect hair, designer black dress that probably cost more than a car. She looked like she was heading to a fashion show, not a funeral. Behind her, Anabella appeared like a dark shadow, wearing a black designer dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She looked at my red eyes and smudged makeup with the kind of disapproval usually reserved for dirty shoes on clean carpets.

"Still crying?" She sighed like I was being difficult on purpose, like grief was an inconvenience she hadn't scheduled. "There are photographers outside, Nuella. Try to keep it together."

I met her eyes in the mirror, noticing how they never seemed to show any real emotion. "Sorry my grief is inconvenient for your photo op."

The funeral was exactly what Papa would have hated - all show, no substance. The church was packed with people I'd never seen before, all there to be seen rather than to remember. Anabella played the grieving widow perfectly, dabbing at dry eyes with a silk handkerchief while Siren hung on her arm like an expensive purse. I sat in the front row, actually crying, feeling like I was at the wrong funeral. The flowers alone probably cost more than most people's monthly salary - all white roses, Papa's least favorite flower.

Mrs. Henderson, our nosy neighbor who'd lived next door for twenty years, cornered me by the refreshments. Her perfume was overpowering, mixing unpleasantly with the smell of funeral flowers. "Your father was such a good man," she whispered, glancing at Anabella with the kind of look reserved for soap opera villains. "Always helping others. Such a shame about... well..." She didn't finish, but I knew what she meant. Everyone had whispered when Papa married Anabella two years ago. Trophy wife, gold digger - I'd heard all the rumors. Now those same rumors had a different edge to them.

Back home, Mr. Thompson, Papa's lawyer, was waiting in the study. The room still smelled like Papa's cologne. I couldn't look at his empty chair - the leather still showed the indent where he used to sit, like a ghost we couldn't exorcise. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Persian rug, making the room feel colder than it should.

"The will," Mr. Thompson said, adjusting his glasses with trembling fingers, "is very specific."

I sat up straighter, my heart pounding against my ribs. Papa had promised to protect me. Please, let him have kept that promise. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Miss Nuella must remain in the family home until her twenty-fifth birthday. If she leaves or is forced out, everything goes to Mrs. Anderson and her daughter."

Five years. They had to keep me around for five years. The math felt like a prison sentence - one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days of survival.

"How convenient," Siren muttered, but I saw the anger flash in her eyes like lightning before a storm.

"Monthly allowances will be distributed equally," Mr. Thompson continued, his voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. "Mrs. Anderson manages house expenses, but major financial decisions require everyone's agreement."

Anabella's perfect mask slipped for just a second - like watching a c***k appear in fine china. I saw the fury before she covered it with another fake smile, the kind that never reached her eyes.

That night, dinner was a joke - they left a plate outside my door with barely enough food for a child. The portion was so small it looked lost on the expensive china. When I went to the kitchen for more, Siren was there, perched on the marble counter like a well-dressed vulture, eating imported chocolates from a golden box.

"Budget cuts," she said with a smirk that would have made a snake proud. "We all have to make sacrifices."

I reached for an apple from the crystal fruit bowl. She grabbed my wrist, her manicured nails digging into my skin like tiny daggers.

"That's imported. From Japan." Her voice was sugar-sweet poison, each word carefully chosen to hurt. "You don't deserve it."

Later, I heard them plotting in Anabella's room. The walls in this house were old - they carried sound like gossip, whispering secrets to anyone who cared to listen.

"Five years is nothing," Anabella was saying, her voice muffled but clear enough. "We just need to be smart about this."

"I don't want to wait," Siren whined, sounding like a child denied candy. "This should be our house now."

"Patience, darling. We just need to make her... uncomfortable enough to leave on her own."

I walked back to my room, my heart pounding like a war drum. In my desk drawer, Papa's letter felt like it was burning a hole in the wood. His warnings made sense now - he'd known what was coming.

A crash from downstairs made me jump. The sound echoed through the empty halls like a gunshot. I found my mother's portrait - the only one Papa had kept - face down on the floor, glass everywhere. The frame was twisted, like someone had taken particular pleasure in destroying it.

"Oops," Siren said, examining her perfect nails as if they were more interesting than the destruction at her feet. "Accidents happen."

I knelt to pick up the pieces, and a shard of glass cut my finger. A drop of blood fell on my mother's smiling face - a crimson tear on a paper cheek.

"Clean that up," Anabella ordered from the doorway, her voice as cold as the marble floors. "And Nuella? Do be careful. Accidents are so... common these days."

The threat was clear as crystal. As I cleaned up the mess, watching my blood mix with the glass, I made a promise to myself. They wanted to break me? They'd learn what Papa always knew - I was stronger than I looked. Each piece of glass I picked up felt like a piece of armor I was building around myself.

This wasn't just about money anymore. This was war. And I'd been trained by the best - a father who taught me that sometimes the quietest fighters are the most dangerous.