But that peace didn’t last long.
Ginger started redecorating the villa as if she were already the wife.
My favorite oil painting? Gone. She swapped it for some postmodern installation art she loved. She even installed security cameras in every corner of the villa.
The dining room got a fancy new set of bone china, but the home-cooked meals I grew up with? Those were history.
“You’ve all been eating way too carelessly these past few years,” she said, directing the chef. “From now on, you should be more particular. Darcey, you should learn to develop some taste.”
I stared at the exquisite but soulless dish in front of me and found myself missing Miss Merrill’s simple bowl of mac and cheese.
But Miss Merrill got fired. Ginger’s reason? “She wasn’t professional enough.”
And Ulysses turned a blind eye to all these changes.
He was getting busier, leaving early and coming home late. And when he was home, all his time was spent with Ginger.
“Lee, don’t you think this painting looks good here?”
“Sure.”
“Darling, will you come with me to pick curtains this weekend?”
“Of course.”
He never said no to her. It was like this villa had always been hers to run.
I started hiding out in the rehearsal room out of habit, hoping to escape her, but even there, I couldn’t.
One day, while I was rehearsing, she walked right in without warning. “Darcey, can I use this room for a bit? My friends want to see it.”
I glanced at the clock. The Youth America Grand Prix was just a day away. “I still need to practice…”
“It’ll only take a moment.” She’d already opened the door, letting in a group of women dressed to the nines.
I had no choice but to pack up and leave. As I passed by, I overheard one of them whisper, “So, this is the adopted daughter? She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“She is,” Ginger replied, her tone smug. “I heard she used to cling to Lee all the time. But it’s fine now—I’m here to keep an eye on things.”
I froze for half a second, then kept walking, saying nothing.
Back in my room, I turned on my laptop to review my rehearsal videos, looking for areas to improve. But as soon as I opened Facebook, I saw a dance video going viral.
Curious, I clicked on it—and my heart dropped.
It was my rehearsal from two weeks ago. But someone else had slapped their watermark on it.
The comments were filled with praise for the creativity of the choreography, but no one mentioned my name.
I immediately looked up the account that posted it. It belonged to one of the competitors in tomorrow’s competition.
My stomach sank. Plagiarism like this wasn’t new in the dance industry, but I never thought it would happen to me.
As I was preparing to gather evidence to defend my rights, there was a knock at the door.
“Darcey, come out for dinner,” Ulysses called.
I wiped my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”
There was a pause. “Don’t stay holed up in your room all the time.”
“I’m fine. You mans eat without me.”
Another moment of silence passed. Then, his footsteps finally faded away.
I stared at my laptop screen, debating whether to tell him about this. In the past, I would go to him right away whenever I ran into trouble.
But now? I didn’t even know how I should speak to him.
As his sister? I certainly had crossed that line long ago.
As his friend? We’d grown so distant that even casual conversations felt strained.
Just then, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
[Want that video taken down? Then drop out of the competition.]
I stared at the message for a long time until I laughed.
