Chapter 3

The dining room was still settling from the earlier chaos when I decided to push further.

I looked at the spread in front of me—lobster bisque, seared foie gras, a sashimi platter arranged in the shape of a chrysanthemum. All of it catered to Brittany's palate. The bisque was too rich for my stomach. The raw fish made my throat tighten with memories I'd rather forget.

"I'd like something else," I said. "Just a simple salad. Or sautéed greens."

My mother's jaw tightened. "The chef went home an hour ago. We're not calling him back for a salad. Eat what's on the table."

Brittany reached across and deposited a slice of translucent raw tuna onto my plate. The fish glistened under the chandelier. "Here, sister. This is light. You'll enjoy it."

She knew. Last month, at a family dinner I'd been permitted to attend, I'd nearly vomited when a seafood course arrived. Brittany had watched me excuse myself with an expression I couldn't read then. Now I understood—she'd been filing the information away.

I pushed the tuna aside and waited.

Three seconds. Two. One.

"Disparity detected. Enforcement initiated."

My mother's chair toppled backward. She hit the floor hard, her composure shattering along with one of her veneers. The porcelain splinter skittered across the hardwood.

"Catherine Costello spent four hours overseeing the preparation of Brittany's preferred dishes. She has never once inquired about Valentina's dietary needs or aversions. System records confirm Valentina experiences nausea triggered by raw protein. Penalty assessed at level three."

My mother's hands trembled as she pulled herself upright. Without a word, she walked to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, a plate of stir-fried vegetables landed beside my elbow.

"There. Your greens."

Brittany watched her sashimi platter get cleared away, her expression flickering between fury and disbelief.

I ate slowly, savoring every bite. Not because the vegetables were exceptional—they were fine, nothing more—but because for the first time in this house, I'd asked for something and received it.

After dinner, Brittany retreated upstairs without a word. Her door closed with a precise, controlled click rather than a slam. That was more dangerous, I knew. Brittany didn't rage. She planned.

I stayed at the table, letting the silence stretch.

"I want a proper room."

My father's glass paused halfway to his lips. "Excuse me?"

"I've been sleeping in the utility closet for three months. The ventilation doesn't reach there. There's mold in the corner. I want a bedroom equivalent to Brittany's."

Brittany reappeared on the landing so fast she must have been listening at the door. "That's insane. My room was designed by a Parisian architect who's been dead for a decade. The furniture is custom. The linens are hand-embroidered. You can't just replicate it, and you certainly don't have the taste to appreciate it."

I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on my parents. "If she has it, I should have it. That's the principle, isn't it?"

Marcus stepped forward, positioning himself as Brittany's shield. "Valentina. Enough."

But my parents didn't speak. The silence stretched, and I watched them calculate—the memory of electricity versus the cost of renovation, the inconvenience versus the pain threshold.

My mother spoke first. "Brittany, let Valentina use your room tonight. Tomorrow I'll have contractors convert the east guest suite."

My father nodded heavily. "I'll make calls in the morning. There has to be a way around this system. Someone in the governor's office owes me a favor."

There it was. They'd always known how to distribute resources equally. They'd simply never wanted to. The system hadn't taught them fairness—it had taught them consequences.

Brittany descended the stairs slowly, her footsteps deliberate. When she passed my chair, she leaned close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral and expensive.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," she murmured. "You think a machine can protect you forever?"

I met her eyes. "Goodnight, Brittany."