Chapter Three

Chapter 3

ROSE'S POINT OF VIEW

I swirled the champagne in my crystal flute, watching the bubbles dance. Victory tasted sweet, just like I'd imagined all these years. The living room of my penthouse apartment overlooked the city where I'd spent twenty years pretending to be the perfect adopted daughter, the loving sister, the supportive friend.

What a joke.

"To freedom," I whispered to my reflection in the window. The woman staring back at me smiled, perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect lies. Just like always.

My phone buzzed again. Another missed call from Stefan. He'd been calling non-stop since Camille walked out, probably worried I'd change my mind now that everything was in the open. Poor, predictable Stefan. Still thinking he was in control of any of this.

I kicked off my Louboutins and sank into the leather couch, letting memories wash over me like warm wine.

The first time I saw Camille Lewis, I hated her.

I was thirteen, fresh out of foster care, desperate to please my new parents. They'd brought me to this massive house with its manicured lawn and marble floors, promising me a fresh start. A real family.

Then this skinny thing with braces and messy hair came bouncing down the stairs, all eager smiles and innocent eyes.

"Hi! I'm Camille. I've always wanted a sister!"

She hugged me right there in the foyer, not caring that my clothes were secondhand or that I smelled like the group home's industrial detergent. Just pure, genuine joy at having a sister.

I wanted to vomit.

Because there she was, this awkward, imperfect girl who had everything I'd spent thirteen years dreaming about. Parents who actually wanted her. A home she belonged in. A future secured by the Lewis family name.

And she didn't even appreciate it properly.

I watched her over dinner that first night, watched how she slouched in her chair and talked with her mouth full. How she didn't know which fork to use for salad. How she laughed too loud and asked too many questions.

"Rose has such lovely manners," Mrs. Lewis .... Mom ..... had said, smiling at me. "Perhaps you could learn from your new sister, Camille."

That's when I saw it. The first crack in Camille's perfect world. The slight dimming of her smile, the way she sat up straighter, tried harder.

It was beautiful.

My phone buzzed again, pulling me back to the present. Stefan's face lit up my screen, his fifth call in an hour. With a sigh, I answered.

"Darling, you're being needy."

"Rose." His voice was rough. Had he been drinking? "She's gone. Really gone. Blocked my number, cleaned out her closet..."

"Isn't that what we wanted?" I kept my voice gentle, soothing. The same tone I'd used all those times I'd counseled Camille through her marital problems. Problems I'd carefully orchestrated.

"I just... the way she looked at me..."

"Stefan, sweetheart." I let the steel edge into my sweetness. "Are you having second thoughts? After everything we've been through?"

"No! No, of course not. I love you. I've always loved you."

"Then stop calling me about your ex-wife. It's pathetic."

I hung up, tossing the phone aside. Men were so predictably weak. Even Stefan, who I'd spent four years grooming before pushing him toward Camille, still needed constant management.

But he'd served his purpose. Just like everyone else in my carefully constructed game.

The family photo on my mantel caught my eye, my adoption day. I stood in the center, of course. Always the center. Camille pushed to the edge of the frame, trying so hard to smile through her insecurities.

God, it had been easy. Almost too easy.

A little whisper here about how Camille was unstable. A few concerned conversations with Mom about how worried I was about my dear sister's emotional state. Casual mentions to Dad about how Camille seemed to be struggling with basic adult responsibilities.

Fourteen years of careful groundwork, positioning myself as the responsible daughter, the achievable dream, while slowly crushing Camille's confidence, her relationships, her sense of self.

The college rejection was particularly inspired, if I do say so myself. All it took was one tearful conversation with Mom about finding Camille's "secret" diary, filled with dark thoughts and destructive plans. Plans I'd written myself, of course, in Camille's childish handwriting that I'd spent months practicing to forge.

Suddenly, their precious younger daughter wasn't ready for college. I needed time to "find herself." Needed to stay close to home where they could watch her.

Where I could watch her.

I took another sip of champagne, savoring the moment. Because this was what I'd really wanted all along. Not Stefan, he was just a useful pawn. Not the Lewis fortune, though that would come in time.

No, what I wanted was to watch perfect, precious Camille finally break. To see her realize that everything she thought she had family, love, security, had been built on my lies.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mom: "Rose, darling, please come over. Your father and I need to talk about what happened."

I smiled, already planning my performance. The tearful confusion, the reluctant confession about Stefan's pursuit, the gentle concern about Camille's mental state.

By the time I was done, they'd be thanking me for protecting them from their unstable daughter all these years.

Standing up, I walked to my closet, selecting the perfect outfit for my next scene. Something subtle but expensive. Grieving sister, not celebrating victor.

The massive walk-in closet had been Camille's wedding gift to me. "So you'll always have space for your amazing fashion sense," she'd said, hugging me tight.

Even then, even after years of watching me steal every spotlight, every opportunity, every scrap of parental approval, she'd still loved me. Still trusted me.

Idiot.

I pulled out a cream cashmere sweater, remembering how Camille used to borrow my clothes in high school. How I'd wait until she had something important, a date, a presentation, an interview, then suddenly remember I needed that exact outfit.

She'd always given them back without argument. Always apologized for the inconvenience.

Always tried so hard to be the perfect sister.

My reflection caught my eye, and for a moment, just a moment, I saw something ugly there. Something that looked like the scared, angry foster kid who'd walked into the Lewis house all those years ago.

But then I blinked, and I was the perfect Rose again. Flawless Rose. Rose who could do no wrong.

Slipping on my Cartier bracelet, another gift from my dear sister, I prepared for my next performance. The concerned family meeting would need just the right touch of reluctant honesty, devastated betrayal.

"Oh, Camille," I whispered to my reflection, practicing my worried frown. "What have you done to yourself?"

But as I turned to leave, something made me pause. That look in Camille's eyes before she'd walked out, I'd never seen it before. Not in twenty years of pushing her, testing her, breaking her.

It looked almost like... understanding.

Like she'd finally seen through my mask to the truth underneath.

I shook off the uneasy feeling. Camille was weak, just like I'd made her. She'd run away, lick her wounds, maybe try to start over somewhere new.

But she'd never be free of me. I'd made sure of that years ago.