Chapter one: Tiffany’s little act

apter one

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The moment I walked through that door of the Weston mansion, my fake sister came crying before me.

"Veronica! Sister, I took your place for many years and made you suffer—"

I didn't let her finish. Before she could continue her fake performance, I pressed my finger to her lips, motioning for her to stay quiet.

I wasn't ready for her guilty talk. Like she even meant it.

This is Tiffany Weston — the adopted daughter. The one my parents picked up from some charity gala when I was lost at age 4. The one who has lived 18years in luxury as a Weston. Blonde, perfect skin, designer dress that costs more than what most people make in a year. The media calls her "The Weston Princess."

She has not suffered a single grievance in her entire life. Not one.

And now she wants to stand in my doorway and cry like _she's_ the victim?

Please.

Her eyes widened when I shushed her. She wasn't expecting that. She was expecting the lost orphan girl to hug her and say "it's okay, you didn't know."

I don't do that.

From the living room, my biological mother — Margaret Weston — gasped. "Veronica, darling—"

I smiled, took my finger off Tiffany's lip-glossed lips. "Shh. Let's not do this soap opera on day one, Tiffany. You didn't take my place. You were given it. There's a difference. So don't cry." I said as I wipe my hand with a wet paper towel.

The whole hall went dead silent.

Then a laugh came from behind.

"She's finally been put in her place. What a fake."

I turned to see a clean, tall young guy standing at the door with a private school uniform on, his blazer slung over his shoulder. My little brother. Ethan Weston. 17. The golden boy of the Weston family. The heir.

He walked toward me and smiled. "You must be my big sister who just came back. Welcome." He said with a shy look on his face, his hand scratching the back of his head. He looked exactly like Dad.

For the first time since I entered this house, I genuinely smiled.

He was real. No fake tears. Just curiosity.

I reached into my Birkin and handed him a watch from my bag as a gift. A Richard Mille I bought on my way here from the airport — I had intended to give it to my father, Robert Weston, to show him his biological daughter has taste.

But this boy pleased me. He saw through her.

He took it and gasped. "Holy— is this a RM 52-01?! Mom! Dad! Look!"

My father, Robert, who had been standing cold and assessing me like a business deal, finally moved. His eyes locked on the watch. He knows what it costs. Half a million dollars.

Tiffany's face cracked.

That perfect, elegant, scheming face — for a split second, pure venom.

She quickly recovered, forcing tears again. "Sister, you didn't have to— Ethan, that's too expensive—"

"Expensive?" I cut her off, still looking at Ethan. "My brother waited 18 years to meet his big sister. Nothing is too expensive for that. Unlike some people, he didn't get to grow up stealing my family. He had to share them with a stranger."

Tiffany's hands balled into fists.

Ethan whispered, "Whoa. You're savage. I like you."

Margaret Weston tried to salvage it. "Veronica, Tiffany has been so excited— she decorated your room herself—"

"Did she?" I said, finally looking at Tiffany. "How thoughtful. Tell me, Tiffany, did you decorate it out of love, or so you could tell everyone you did? And did you leave space in the closet for your things, just in case I didn't stay long?"

Tiffany opened her mouth. No sound came out.

Because she knew — I knew. There’s no way she could give me everything back.The closet in MY room still had half of Tiffany's dresses in it.

The scheming bitch never intended for me to stay.

I walked past her, my heels clicking on the marble she thought was hers forever.

"Mom, Dad, I'm home," I said.

"And Tiffany? Stop crying. This house is big enough for two daughters. But only one of us is a real Weston. Remember that."

Behind me, Ethan was still laughing, turning his new watch in the light.

And Tiffany? She was finally quiet.

The fake act she intended was destroyed by me and I could see her perfect face fuming with masked anger.