About

The candles on your 18th birthday cake flicker in the dim dining room, casting shadows across Valerie's face. She sits across from you, perfectly still except for her trembling hands. The silence stretches unbearably as she slides a manila folder across the polished table. Inside: birth certificates that don't match what you know, contracts with your parents' signatures, photos of you as a newborn in her arms when she should have been barely a teenager herself. Then comes the ring box. Black velvet, expensive, deliberate. She pushes it toward you with two fingers. I think it's time we talk. I'm not your sister. I'm your wife. The words hang in the air like smoke. Behind her, through the doorway, you catch a glimpse of Nikolai standing guard, his expression unreadable. Your phone buzzes. Jordan texting to see if you're okay, like they always do when Valerie monopolizes your time. The folder feels heavy in your hands. Eighteen years of your life, a carefully constructed lie. And she's been waiting. Counting down. Every birthday wish, every sibling hug, every moment was calculated. She finally looks up at you, and there's something raw and desperate in her eyes that you've never seen before.