Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Camille's point of view

The house was quiet, too quiet. I slipped in through the side door, locking it softly behind me. The air smelled like lemon polish and roses, just like it always did. It felt strange to be back, like stepping into someone else’s life.

The kitchen was dark except for the faint glow of the fridge light. I crept up the stairs, careful to skip the third step that creaked. Every sound I made felt loud, like the house itself was listening.

When I reached my bedroom door, I stopped. It was open a crack, just like I’d left it all those years ago. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside and shut the door.

My childhood bedroom hadn't changed in three years. Same pale pink walls, same white furniture, same collection of second-place trophies. Rose's first-place ones used to shine in the room next door.

I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror, the same one where I'd practiced my wedding makeup three years ago, Rose standing behind me with that perfect smile. Now my mascara was smeared, hair wild, designer dress wrinkled. Mom would have a fit if she saw me like this.

The clock on my nightstand read 10:47 PM. I'd been sitting here for hours, packing what little of my old life I wanted to keep. Amazing how seventeen years in this house fit into one duffel bag.

My phone buzzed again, the twentieth time in an hour. This time it was Mom.

"Camille, this is ridiculous. Come home so we can discuss this like adults. Rose is worried sick..."

I hung up. Of course Rose was worried. Her carefully laid plans were unraveling.

The front door clicked open downstairs. I froze, listening to familiar footsteps on hardwood. The slight tap of heels, the whisper of expensive fabric.

"Camille?" Mom's voice floated up the stairs. "Darling, I know you're here. The housekeeper saw your car."

I should have parked around the block. Should have been smarter, faster, better at disappearing. But I'd never been the clever one, had I? That was Rose's role.

More footsteps. A deeper voice, Dad, probably called home from work to deal with his hysterical younger daughter. Again.

"Princess?" His voice carried that same gentle tone he'd used when I was twelve, crying about Rose getting my spot in the school play. "Let's talk about this."

A third set of footsteps made my blood freeze. Lighter, more graceful. Perfect, like everything else about her.

"Camille?" Rose's voice dripped concern. "Sweetie, please. Don't shut us out."

I looked at the family photo on my dresser, taken the day Rose's adoption was finalized. Mom and Dad beaming, Rose radiant in her new dress, thirteen-year-old me trying to smile through braces and acne. One big happy family.

What a joke.

The memory hit me like a punch to the gut:

---

"But I've been practicing for months!" I clutched my script, tears blurring the words. "Mrs. Bennett said the lead was mine!"

Rose touched my shoulder, gentle as always. "Oh, sweetie. I didn't mean to take your part. I just... the words came so naturally in the audition. Mrs. Bennett said I had a gift."

Of course she did. Everyone said Rose had a gift. For music, for acting, for making people love her.

"Maybe..." Rose's eyes lit up with that special gleam that always meant trouble. "Maybe you could help me practice? Be my supporting actress? We could make it our sister thing!"

I'd agreed. Because that's what good sisters did. Because saying no to Rose meant disappointed looks from Mom, lectures from Dad about family loyalty.

Opening night, I watched from the wings as Rose brought the audience to tears. Afterward, Mom bought her roses. Dad took us all to dinner.

No one mentioned that I'd written Rose's best lines during our "practice sessions." Or that her dramatic monologue had been word-for-word what I'd performed in my original audition.

Rose just had a gift for memorization, that's all.

---

"Camille Elizabeth Lewis!" Mom's voice sharpened. "This behavior is completely unacceptable."

I opened my bedroom door.

They stood in the hallway like a perfect family portrait, Mom in her designer suit, Dad looking distinguished in his work clothes, Rose wearing concern like the latest fashion trend.

"Hello, sister." My voice came out steady. "Shouldn't you be comforting your fiancé?"

Rose's eyes widened. Always the performer. "Camille, please. Let me explain..."

"Explain what? How you've been sleeping with my husband? Or how you set this whole thing up from the beginning?"

"What is she talking about?" Dad turned to Rose, who already had tears forming. Perfect, delicate tears that never smeared her makeup.

"She's upset," Rose whispered. "Lashing out. You know how she gets, Daddy."

"Don't." My laugh sounded strange, even to me. "Don't you dare play that card again. Show them the ring, Rose. The one Stefan gave you two months ago while I was supposedly too sick to attend the charity gala."

Mom gasped. Dad's face darkened. But Rose, Rose's mask slipped for just a second. I saw it this time, that flash of cold calculation behind the concern.

"It wasn't like that," she started.

"Really? Then how was it? Explain to everyone how you've been calling me every week, giving me marriage advice while sleeping with my husband. Tell them about all the times you helped me pick out lingerie for anniversaries when Stefan was really working late with you."

"That's enough!" Mom stepped forward. "Rose would never..."

"Never what, Mom? Never lie? Never manipulate? Never steal something that belonged to her sister?" I pulled out my phone, playing the last voicemail from Stefan.

His voice filled the hallway: "Rose is my soulmate, Camille. We tried to fight it, but some people are just meant to be together. You have to understand..."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Rose recovered first. "I never meant to hurt you. We can't help who we love..."

The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek echoed like a gunshot.

"Camille!" Mom grabbed my arm. "Have you lost your mind?"

"No," I said quietly, watching a red mark bloom on Rose's perfect face. "For the first time in fourteen years, I'm seeing clearly."

I walked past them, duffel bag in hand. Behind me, Rose's sobs started, the same performance she'd perfected over years of turning everyone against me.

"Where are you going?" Dad called after me. "You can't just walk away from family!"

I paused at the top of the stairs, looking back at my so-called family. Mom comforting Rose, Dad looking torn, and my sister watching me through her tears with eyes that held no warmth at all.

"Family?" I smiled, and something in my expression made them all step back. "No, this isn't family. This is a game. And for fourteen years, I've been playing by Rose's rules."

"Camille, please," Rose reached for me, ever the caring sister. "Let me make this right."

I caught her wrist before she could touch me. "You taught me well, big sister. About manipulation. About patience. About waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

Her eyes widened, real fear this time, not performed.

"Thank you for the lessons," I whispered, letting her go. "Now watch how well I learned them."

I walked down the stairs, ignoring their calls. In the foyer mirror, I caught one last glimpse of myself, mascara-stained, wild-eyed, finally unchained.