Chapter 5

Calleigh POV:

The chill from Kenneth' s rebuke lasted for two whole days. Fiona was conspicuously absent. Brock was moody and withdrawn, caught between loyalty to his family and infatuation with the woman who was systematically trying to dismantle it.

I knew Kenneth' s decree hadn' t extinguished the fire; it had just forced it underground. Fiona was too proud and too obsessed to simply give up. Her humiliation would only fester into a deeper, more venomous resentment.

She couldn' t attack me in front of Kenneth and Geneva anymore, so she turned her attention to the one person she could still manipulate: Brock.

They started arguing. I would hear their raised voices from his room, the sharp, angry cadence of her words followed by his frustrated replies.

"She needs to move out, Brock! It' s not appropriate for a grown woman to be living with her adoptive brother! What will people think when we get married?"

"She' s my sister, Fiona! This is her home! I' m not kicking my sister out of her home!"

"She' s not your real sister!"

The arguments would end with her storming out or with him giving in, exhausted and worn down. She was like water wearing away stone.

Having failed to oust me physically, she switched tactics. She started trying to police my life, positioning herself as a gatekeeper to my own family.

"Calleigh, honey, who was that boy who dropped you off last night?" she asked one afternoon, her tone deceptively casual as she pruned one of Geneva' s rose bushes, a task she' d suddenly taken upon herself.

"A friend from my study group," I replied, not breaking my stride as I walked past her.

She tutted, snipping a perfect rose bloom with a vicious snap. "You know, Geneva worries. A girl with your... situation... needs to be extra careful about her reputation. You can' t be seen coming home at all hours with different young men. It doesn't look good."

I kept walking, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

The next day, she tried it with Geneva directly.

"I' m just a little concerned about Calleigh," she said, her voice oozing sincerity. "She seems to be going out a lot. Maybe a curfew would be a good idea? We wouldn' t want any unfortunate rumors to start, especially with the family name to consider."

Geneva was arranging flowers in a vase. She didn' t look up. She simply selected a long-stemmed white lily, held it up to the light, and then, with a pair of shears, she snipped off its head. The bloom fell to the counter with a soft thud.

"We trust our daughter, Fiona," Geneva said, her voice as cool and crisp as the morning air. "Implicitly. And we don' t govern our family based on the fear of rumors started by small, malicious minds."

Another wall. Another failure.

Fiona was trapped in a vicious cycle. The more she tried to diminish me, the more Kenneth and Geneva affirmed my place. The more they affirmed my place, the more insecure and frantic she became. Even Brock, as blinded as he was, was starting to look at her with a flicker of doubt, a hint of weariness.

Her anxiety became a palpable thing, a frantic energy that filled every room she entered. She was losing her grip, and she knew it.

And then, she did something unforgivable.

I was in my study, a small, sun-drenched room overlooking the garden, finalizing the designs for my graduate school portfolio. On a small, delicate table by the window sat my most prized possession. It wasn' t expensive or grand. It was a simple, silver locket on a fragile chain. Inside were two tiny, faded photographs: one of my mother, Sarah, and one of my father, David. It was the only thing I had left of them.

Fiona burst in without knocking, Brock trailing behind her, looking exasperated.

"I just don' t understand why you' re being so difficult about this, Brock!" she was saying, her voice high and shrill.

She gesticulated wildly, her arms flailing. Her hand swept out, catching the leg of the small table.

I saw it happen in slow motion. The table tilted. The locket slid, catching the light for a brief, heartbreaking second before it tumbled to the hardwood floor.

The sound of the delicate silver cracking against the wood was small, but to me, it was a gunshot.

It shattered. Not just the clasp, but the locket itself was dented and broken, the fragile hinge torn apart. The two halves lay on the floor, my parents' smiling faces staring up at the ceiling.

A wave of absolute silence filled the room.

Fiona froze, her hand still in the air. She looked down at the broken pieces on the floor, then up at my face.

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in a parody of shock. "Oh my God! Calleigh! I am so, so sorry! I' m so clumsy! I didn' t see it! I' ll pay for it! I' ll buy you a new one, a better one!"

But as I looked into her eyes, I saw no apology. I saw no regret.

I saw a flicker of dark, twisted, victorious glee.

And in that moment, the patient, quiet, peace-keeping part of me died.

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