Chapter One: Already Guilty

Anastasia’s POV

The slap comes without warning.

One second I'm standing in the hallway outside the ballroom, trying to blend into the wallpaper like I always do, and the next my head whips to the side so violently I taste blood on my tongue.

"How dare you!"

Mother's voice cuts through the classical music and polite laughter spilling from the party. Her face, perfectly made up, not a single blonde hair out of place, is twisted with a rage I know all too well.

My cheek burns. My eyes water. But I don't cry.

"I didn't—"

"She pushed me!" Vivienne's voice rings out from behind Mother, high and trembling with theatrical fear. "Mama, she pushed me down the stairs!"

I turn to look past Mother and see my sister at the base of the grand staircase, about ten feet away. One manicured hand presses dramatically to her very pregnant belly. Her rose-gold gown, custom Valentino, because only the best for Vivienne, doesn't have a single wrinkle. Her chocolate-brown hair still sits in perfect curls around her shoulders.

But her eyes are gleaming with triumph.

And beside her, steadying her with one hand on her elbow, is Christopher.

My Christopher.

Well. Not mine anymore. Not for seven months now.

"That's not what happened," I say, but my voice cracks. Because I can't stop staring at his hand on her arm. At the protective way he's angled his body toward her. "I didn't push her. I didn't even touch her."

"Liar!" Mother's hand connects with my other cheek. Harder this time, and my vision blurs. "I saw you! You put your hands on your pregnant sister and shoved her!"

"I didn't! She was blocking the top of the stairs, telling me about—" I stop myself, but it's too late.

"Telling you what?" Christopher demands, moving away from Vivienne to step closer. His handsome face, the one I used to trace with my fingers in the dark, is flushed with anger. "That we're having a baby? That's what set you off?"

My pregnant sister.

We're having a baby.

The words make my stomach turn.

"She didn't just tell me," I say, and I hate how my voice shakes. How small I sound. "She was rubbing it in my face. Laughing about how you were sleeping with her the whole time we were together—"

"That's a lie!" Vivienne's voice breaks on a sob. "I would never do that! Christopher and I didn't get together until after you two broke up! Tell her, Chris!"

Christopher's jaw tightens, and he won't look at me. "We started dating three months after you and I ended things, Anastasia. Not that it's any of your business."

Three months. But Vivienne is seven months pregnant. I can see it in the swell of her belly, obvious even in the empire waist of her gown.

The math doesn't add up, and everyone here is smart enough to know it.

But no one says a word.

"You're lying," I breathe. "She's seven months pregnant, Christopher. We only broke up seven months ago. That means—"

"It means you need to stop making wild accusations," Mother hisses, stepping between us. "Christopher and Vivienne's relationship is none of your concern. What IS your concern is the fact that you just assaulted your sister!"

"I didn't touch her! She was standing at the top of the stairs, blocking my way, telling me she was pregnant with Christopher's baby. Telling me they had been together for almost a year. I tried to walk away and she grabbed my arm, got in my face, and when I pulled away from her, she threw herself down the stairs!"

Vivienne lets out a wounded gasp. "I grabbed your arm because you looked upset! I was trying to comfort you and you shoved me! I barely caught the railing or I would have fallen all the way down!"

"That's not what happened!"

But the ballroom doors burst open before I can say anything else. Guests flood into the hallway, society wives in glittering gowns, businessmen in custom tuxedos, all of them drawn by the commotion. They stare at the scene unfolding in the marble corridor.

At Vivienne, clutching her pregnant belly with tears streaming down her perfect face. At Christopher, hovering near her like a protective shield. At Mother, standing between us like she's protecting her real daughter from a monster. At me. The adopted daughter who just attacked the woman celebrating her 23rd birthday.

"What's going on?" Father's voice booms as he pushes through the crowd. His steel-gray hair is perfectly styled, and he looks between us with cold, assessing eyes.

"Anastasia pushed Vivienne down the stairs," Mother announces. "She could have lost the baby, Richard." The crowd gasps. Murmurs ripple through them like wildfire.

Father's face goes hard. "Is this true?"

"No! I didn't—"

"She's jealous," Vivienne whispers, and her voice is so broken, so convincing, that I almost believe her myself. "Ever since Christopher and I got engaged, she has been... saying things. Cruel things. Tonight she confronted me about the baby and when I tried to calm her down, she just… she snapped."

"You're lying," I say, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears. "You know you're lying."

"Why would I lie about something like this?" Vivienne's eyes well with fresh tears. "You're my sister. I love you. I just wanted you to be happy for me."

The performance is flawless. Academy Award worthy. And everyone is buying it.

"Always knew there was something wrong with that girl," someone whispers behind me.

"Poor Vivienne. Can you imagine? Your own sister attacking you while you're pregnant?"

"Didn't they used to date? Christopher and Anastasia?"

"For a few months, maybe. Nothing serious. He's clearly much better suited to Vivienne."

"Still, the jealousy must be eating her alive. Especially now that they're expecting..."

"Unhinged. Absolutely unhinged."

The whispers build and build until they're all I can hear.

Christopher cheated on me with my sister. Got her pregnant while we were still together. And somehow, I'm the villain in this story.

This is my life. This has always been my life. For as long as I can remember, I've been the problem. The mistake. The one who ruins everything just by existing.

When we were kids and something broke, it was my fault. When Vivienne didn't get into her first-choice school, somehow I had sabotaged her. When she wanted the last piece of cake, I was selfish for taking it first.

And when she wanted my boyfriend? Well. Apparently, he was never really mine to begin with.

Christopher and I dated for two years. Two years of late-night conversations and stolen kisses and promises about the future. He said he loved me. He said I was different from other girls.

He lied.

Because seven months ago, he sat me down in a coffee shop and told me it wasn't working. That we wanted different things. That he needed space.

I cried for weeks.

And apparently, the entire time I was mourning our relationship, he was already with Vivienne. Already building a life with her. Already putting a baby inside her.

"Anastasia." Father's voice cuts through my thoughts. It is cold, and filled with disappointment. "Is this true? Did you push your sister?"

I meet his eyes, trying to find even a shred of belief there. A hint that he might listen to my side.

There's nothing.

"No," I say quietly. "I didn't."

"She's lying!" Vivienne sobs.

Father's expression doesn't change. "Go to your room. Now. We'll discuss this later."

"But I didn't—"

"Now, Anastasia." Mother's voice drops to that quiet tone that makes my stomach clench. "Before you embarrass this family any further."

This family.

Like I'm not actually part of it. Like I never was.

"She's pregnant, Richard," Mother continues, turning to Father. "She's carrying Christopher Whitmore's child. The Whitmore family connection we've been cultivating for years. And Anastasia just tried to—" Her voice breaks dramatically. "If something had happened to that baby..."

"Nothing's going to happen," Father says firmly, but he's looking at Vivienne with something I've never seen in his eyes when he looks at me.

Concern. Love. Fear.

"I'll call Dr. Morrison to come check on you immediately," he tells Vivienne. "And Christopher, please accept our deepest apologies for this... incident."

Incident. Not attack. Not assault.

Because even he knows I didn't really push her.

But it doesn't matter. The story is already written. I'm already guilty.

"You heard your father," Mother says, turning back to me. "Go."

So I run.