Chapter 4

Calleigh POV:

I told myself it would be a one-time thing. A bad first impression. But I had severely underestimated Fiona' s tenacity. She wasn't just a predator; she was a boa constrictor, slowly, methodically tightening her grip.

She became a fixture at the Sampson house. She was always there, draped over Brock, her laugh echoing in rooms where it didn' t belong. She played the part of the perfect future daughter-in-law to a nauseating degree, always remembering Kenneth' s favorite scotch or bringing Geneva a bouquet of their favorite peonies.

But her attacks on me became a kind of sport for her, a series of small, calculated cuts.

She' d do it when Brock was present but distracted, or when the parents were just out of earshot.

"Calleigh, that dress is... interesting," she' d say, looking me up and down with a pitying smile. "It' s a bit severe for a young woman. You should let me take you shopping. We need to find you something that makes you look less... academic."

Or she' d bring up my studies with a tone of feigned admiration that was pure condescension. "All that work for your architecture degree, it' s so impressive! But really, you don' t need to try so hard. You' ll always have the Sampsons to take care of you, won' t you?"

The implication was always the same: I was a dependent, a charity case, a bookish spinster-in-training who didn' t belong in their glamorous world.

The final straw, before the real explosion, came during a small family dinner with a few of Kenneth' s cousins. One of them, a sweet elderly aunt named Carol, was praising me.

"That scholarship to Columbia is just wonderful, Calleigh. Your parents would have been so proud."

I felt a familiar warmth spread through my chest. Before I could thank her, Fiona, who had been sitting beside me, slung an arm around my shoulders. Her touch felt like a spider crawling on my skin.

"Isn' t she just the best?" Fiona chirped, squeezing me tightly. "Brock and I were just talking about it. We' re so proud of our little sister." She emphasized the word 'little' with a patronizing pat on my arm. "In fact, once Brock and I are married, I' m going to make it my personal mission to find Calleigh a husband. It' s high time she was out of the house and starting her own family. We can' t have her becoming an old maid, can we?"

The table went silent.

You could have heard a pin drop. The cousins exchanged awkward glances. Geneva' s face went rigid.

Being called a dependent was one thing. Having my future mapped out for me like I was a piece of property to be disposed of, in front of my family? That crossed a line I didn' t even know existed.

My entire body went cold. I slowly put down my fork.

Geneva shot a look at Brock, a silent, furious command to control his girlfriend. Brock, to his credit, looked mortified. He reached for Fiona' s arm, his voice a low hiss. "Fiona, stop."

But Fiona was on a roll. She either didn' t see his warning or didn' t care. She picked up a piece of asparagus from the serving dish and placed it on my plate.

"Here, honey, you need to eat more. You' re too thin," she said, her voice dripping with fake concern.

I stared at the asparagus spear lying amongst my mashed potatoes. I looked at her perfectly made-up face, her smug, smiling eyes. And something inside me, something that had been patiently absorbing her poison for weeks, finally snapped.

I was about to speak, to say something unforgivable, when a deep voice cut through the tension like a guillotine.

"Fiona."

It was Kenneth. He had set down his wine glass, and the sound echoed in the silent room. He wasn' t looking at her, but his voice was layered with so much cold authority that she flinched.

"Calleigh is our daughter," he said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of an iron decree. "Her future is her own to decide. Her place in this house is permanent and non-negotiable. This is the last time I want to hear you, or anyone else, suggest otherwise. Is that clear?"

Fiona' s smile vanished. Her face went from smug to chalk-white in a heartbeat.

"Yes, Kenneth," she mumbled, her eyes wide with shock. "I... I' m sorry. I was just joking."

"It wasn' t funny," he said, finally turning to look at her. His gaze was glacial. "Don' t do it again."

He picked up his wine glass and took a sip, the matter closed.

The rest of the dinner was agonizing. Fiona didn' t say another word, just picked at her food with a stormy expression. I knew I should have felt victorious. My father had defended me, unequivocally. But all I felt was a knot of dread. I hadn' t won a battle. I had just made the enemy more determined.

And as Fiona shot me a look from across the table, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred, I knew her next attack wouldn' t be with words.

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