Chapter 3

The next week, we went to the Blakelys' summer home in the Hamptons. It was part of the plan. They needed to introduce Nicole to their elite social circle.

A new rumor began to circulate, seemingly out of nowhere. It was whispered at cocktail parties and charity luncheons. A famous psychic, one Elizabeth deeply respected, had made a prophecy.

The next great political matriarch, a future First Lady, would be a young woman with a distinctive star-shaped birthmark on her wrist.

I have that birthmark. I' ve had it since birth.

I watched as Nicole' s eyes followed my wrist constantly. Her jealousy was a physical thing, a dark cloud that followed her around the house. She wanted it. She believed it was rightfully hers, like everything else.

One evening, I found her in my room, staring at a photo of me where the birthmark was visible.

I leaned against the doorframe. "It's silly, isn't it? A stupid birthmark."

She jumped, startled. "Oh, Stella. I didn't hear you." She forced a smile. "No, it's... it's beautiful. You're so lucky."

"I don't feel lucky," I said, my voice full of fake melancholy. "You're the one everyone loves. You're the real Blakely."

I let a single tear roll down my cheek. "I wish you could have it. You deserve to be the First Lady, not me."

Her eyes lit up with a greedy fire. "Don't say that, Stella."

"I mean it," I said, moving closer. I "confided" in her, my voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a friend in the city. A tattoo artist. He's incredibly skilled. He could... replicate it. On your wrist. No one would ever know."

I paused, as if thinking. "I could cover mine with makeup. I'll say it faded. People will think the prophecy was about you all along."

She stared at me, her mind racing. The desire in her eyes was overwhelming.

"But... wouldn't it hurt?" she asked, the last shred of caution remaining.

I smiled, a sad, selfless smile. "Beauty is pain, right? And this is for your destiny, Nicole. A little pain is worth it."

She agreed. Of course, she did.

I made the appointment. I specifically told the artist that my "sister" had a very low pain tolerance and was terrified of needles, so he should be prepared. Then, just before the appointment, I called him back.

"Change of plans," I said. "My sister wants to prove how tough she is. No anesthetic. Not even a numbing cream. She insisted."

Nicole, blinded by her ambition and sense of entitlement, walked into that tattoo parlor ready to claim her destiny.

I sat in the waiting room, listening to her muffled screams of pain for over an hour.

It was music to my ears.