Alexia POV:
I didn't answer her knock.
Not right away. I needed a moment for the roaring in my ears to subside, for my breathing to even out. My back pressed against the cool wood of the door, the only solid thing in a world that had just dissolved into a nightmare.
Memories, sharp and cruel, flashed behind my eyes.
Katrina, weeping, begging me to take the blame for breaking our mother's favorite vase. I was ten. I took the punishment.
Katrina, presenting a hand-painted scarf to our father for his birthday — the same scarf I had spent weeks working on in secret. She claimed it as her own. I said nothing.
Katrina, standing behind our mother's chair, a flicker of a triumphant smile on her face as I was publicly scolded for a mistake she had made.
And the final, damning image: her face at Sunstone Ridge. No guilt. No fear for me. Just the cold, hard glint of self-preservation as she abandoned me to the wolves — both literal and figurative.
What I had once dismissed as childish jealousy, I now saw for what it was: a deep, calculated malice.
Stealing my destiny wasn't a sudden impulse. It was the culmination of a lifetime of betrayals.
Another knock, this one more insistent. "Alexia, come on! We'll miss our chance if we wait any longer." Her voice was laced with manufactured urgency.
I took a slow, deep breath, the air burning in my lungs. I walked to the centre of the room, putting distance between myself and the door — between myself and her.
"I have a headache," I said, my voice deliberately flat and weak. "I don't feel like going out today."
The silence on the other side of the door was telling. I could picture her perfectly: the feigned look of concern clouding her pretty features, her mind racing to understand this unexpected deviation from the script.
"A headache?" Her voice was a symphony of manufactured disappointment. "But you were fine last night! We've been planning this for weeks!"
You've been planning this, I thought, a bitter taste in my mouth.
"Maybe I didn't sleep well," I replied, letting my voice trail off. "You should go on your own. Have fun."
"But... we were supposed to go together!" The desperation was seeping into her tone now. Her plan was unraveling. "I'll be scared by myself."
A cold, humorless laugh almost escaped me. You weren't scared when you left me with a shattered ankle, bleeding in the dirt.
I kept my voice frail. "I'm sorry, Katrina. I really don't feel well. Mom will be furious if she finds out we're gone for too long. You should go and come back quickly."
I mentioned our mother on purpose. Sharon was Katrina's weakness, her shield, her most devoted audience.
Another pause, longer this time. She was weighing her options. Her ultimate goal was to be at Sunstone Ridge to meet him — the man who was supposed to be my fated mate. My presence wasn't strictly necessary for that part of her plan.
When she spoke again, her voice had returned to its usual syrupy sweetness. "Okay, sister. You get some rest, then. I'll be back as soon as I can."
I heard her footsteps retreat down the hall. Leaning my head back against the wall, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. A wave of nausea washed over me, the aftershock of the confrontation.
She's had her memories for a while. The thought was a shard of ice in my gut. Long enough to procure the Moonpetal paste, to test it, to apply it perfectly while I slept.
Her target was Sunstone Ridge. And the destiny that waited there. My destiny.
I pushed myself off the wall and moved to the window, pulling back the lace curtain just enough to see the backyard. A minute later, Katrina emerged from the side door, a small backpack slung over her shoulder. She cast a furtive glance back at the house before scurrying toward the tree line.
There was no worry on her face. Only the greedy, triumphant excitement of a thief about to claim her prize.
I watched until she was swallowed by the shadows of the forest. I didn't call out. I didn't run to tell our mother.
If she wanted that path so badly, she could have it.
I would not be the collateral damage of her ambition this time. I would not clean up her messes or suffer for her choices.
This time, I would be a spectator. I would watch her perform her solo act on a stage of her own making.
I let the curtain fall back into place, plunging the room into a soft gloom. My own path lay before me, uncertain and fraught with dangers I couldn't yet see.
But first, I had to survive the storm that would break when our mother, Sharon, came home and found her precious Katrina missing.
And I, sick in my room, would have the perfect alibi.
