and the sweet rot of flowers that should have been thrown out a day earlier.

One of my framed sketch studies from the shop was lying cracked on the entry table.

Madison sat on the sofa in ripped jeans and my old college sweatshirt, the one I had wondered about for months.

She looked at me and saw what she expected to see.

“There she is,” she said.

“The guest.”

I didn’t answer.

That silence emboldened her immediately.

There is a particular type of cruel person who relaxes when they think the other person will not fight back.

You can watch it happen on their face.

“You really told on me?” she asked.

Nothing.

“What, are you gonna cry now?” She took a drink and stood.

“You people are always crying in this house.”

I let my shoulders fold inward the way Claire’s naturally did when she was under pressure.

Madison came closer.

She smelled like some sharp floral perfume and too much tequila.

“I told you last night,” she said, low and mean.

“You are not family.

This is my mother’s house.

You sleep here because my dad lets you.”

The words hit me in layers.

My mother’s house.

The house Ethan and I paid for together every month.

The house where I stocked the pantry, changed the sheets in the guest room, sat through her sullen birthdays, and swallowed my anger every holiday.

Then she jabbed a finger into my shoulder and said, “Say something.”

I answered in Claire’s softer cadence.

“You need to leave me alone, Madison.”

She smiled.

Not a wild smile.

Not an unstable one.

A satisfied one.

She shoved me backward into the foyer table hard enough to rattle the lamp and send the cracked frame sliding to the floor.

Glass broke.

She liked the sound.

I could tell.

Then she grabbed my arm and slapped me across the face.

I still remember the sting, the burst of white in my vision, the effort it took not to defend myself on instinct.

My cheek went hot instantly.

Madison leaned in and said, “Next time I tell you to stay in your room, you stay there.

You don’t come out acting like some second wife in my mother’s house.”

At that moment, through the blur in my left eye, I saw movement on the lit screen in Claire’s bag.

A notification banner crossed it.

Ethan Whitaker viewed Front Foyer Camera.

He was watching live.

Everything in me steadied.

Madison lifted her hand again.

Before she could swing, I spoke in my own voice.

“Do it again, Madison.”

She froze.

Her expression changed in a flicker.

Confusion first.

Then recognition.

Then fear wearing anger like a mask.

I lifted my head and looked straight at her.

Not Claire.

Me.

She whispered, “What?”

My phone screen lit again.

Incoming call: Ethan.

Madison saw his name and the camera feed beneath it.

Instead of apologizing, she hissed, “You set me up.”

That sentence told me more than tears ever could.

The front door flew open a second later.

Ethan came in with his tie loosened and his phone in his hand.

His face had gone the color of chalk.

He looked at my cheek, at Madison, at the broken frame on the floor.

Madison immediately pointed at me.