Chapter 2

Calleigh POV:

The rest of the evening was a masterclass in tension. The lemon chicken tasted like ash in my mouth. Every clink of silverware against porcelain sounded like a gunshot in the heavy silence that Fiona' s comments had created.

She, of course, acted as if nothing had happened. Or rather, she acted like a chastened child, trying desperately to win back favor. She was excessively complimentary of Geneva' s cooking, hung on Kenneth' s every word about the stock market, and clung to Brock' s arm like a life raft.

Her eyes, however, kept finding mine across the long mahogany table. They were no longer veiled. They were openly hostile, filled with a chilling sort of appraisal, as if she were measuring me for a coffin.

I did my best to disappear. I focused on my plate, offered one-word answers when spoken to, and tried to breathe through the knot of dread that had taken up permanent residence in my chest. It felt like I' d swallowed a rock.

After dinner, Kenneth clapped a hand on Brock' s shoulder. "Son, come with me to the study for a minute. There' s a contract I want you to look over."

It was a clear dismissal. He was separating Brock from Fiona, giving the women a moment. Geneva started clearing the plates, her movements efficient and deliberate. I stood to help, grateful for the distraction.

"I' ll help," Fiona chirped, jumping up. But she didn' t head for the kitchen. She headed for me.

She came up beside me at the sideboard, her perfume cloyingly sweet. She looped her arm through mine, her grip surprisingly strong, her nails digging slightly into my skin.

"Calleigh, I really am so sorry about earlier," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a terrible habit of speaking my mind. No filter, you know?"

She winked, as if we were coconspirators. "But I get it."

I stiffened, trying to pull my arm away, but her grip tightened. "Get what, Fiona?"

Her smile was pure venom, wrapped in sugar. "I get it," she repeated, her voice even lower. "This life. The house, the money, the name. It' s a lot to give up. You have to protect your position."

My blood ran cold.

"But you need to understand," she continued, her breath warm against my ear, her voice dripping with condescension. "Brock is mine now. And while it' s cute that you' ve had this little family setup, things are going to change. I' m going to be his wife. I' m going to be the next Mrs. Sampson."

She paused, letting the implication sink in.

"You' re... the other woman, in a way. The sister who isn' t a sister. It' s just a matter of time before it becomes awkward. You should probably start thinking about your own future. One that doesn' t involve living in your brother' s house."

I stared at her, speechless. The sheer audacity was breathtaking.

A bitter, incredulous laugh bubbled up in my throat. "Are you serious?"

I finally yanked my arm free.

"This is my home, Fiona. Kenneth and Geneva are my parents. Brock is my brother. That is my future. I' m not going anywhere."

Her smile froze for a fraction of a second, then re-formed, wider and more brittle than before. She reached out and patted my hand, a gesture that was meant to be placating but felt like a slap.

"Of course, of course. You have to keep up appearances. I understand." Her voice was a purr. "But when I am the lady of this house, I' ll be sure to take very good care of you. We' ll find you a nice little apartment somewhere. Maybe even a suitable husband. You won' t have to worry about a thing."

That was it. The condescending, dismissive tone. The assumption that my life, my position in this family, was something she could manage and dispose of at her leisure.

I stepped back, putting a solid foot of distance between us. My voice came out low and cold, all the forced politeness stripped away.

"The lady of this house is in the kitchen making coffee. Her name is Geneva Sampson. And if you ever become a part of this family, which I' m starting to seriously doubt, you' d do well to remember that."

I turned, my back ramrod straight. "And for the record, I don' t need you to take care of me. I never have, and I never will."

Fiona' s face finally, blessedly, fell. The mask of saccharine sweetness dissolved, revealing the ugly, contorted rage beneath.

"You' ll regret that," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. "You have no idea who you' re dealing with."

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