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 of lemon polish and roses, just as it always had. Returning felt strange, like stepping into someone else’s life.

The kitchen was dark except for the faint glow of the refrigerator light. I crept upstairs, carefully avoiding the third step, which creaked. Every sound I made felt amplified, as if the house itself were listening.

Reaching my bedroom door, I paused. It hung open a crack, just as I’d left it years ago. Taking a deep breath, I entered and closed the door.

My childhood bedroom hadn't changed in three years. The same pale pink walls, white furniture, and collection of second-place trophies remained. Rose’s first-place awards used to gleam 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 earlier, Rose standing behind me with that perfect smile. Now, my mascara was smeared, my hair wild, and my designer dress wrinkled. Mom would be furious if she saw me.

The clock on my nightstand read 10:47 PM. I’d been sitting there for hours, packing the few remnants of my old life I wished to keep. Amazing how seventeen years in that house could fit into a single 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 meticulously crafted plans were unraveling.

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

“Camille?” Mom’s voice drifted upstairs. “Darling, I know you’re here. The housekeeper saw your car.”

I should have parked around the block. I should have been more clever, quicker, better at disappearing. But I’d never been the clever one; that was Rose’s role.

More footsteps. A deeper voice—Dad, likely summoned home from work to manage his hysterical younger daughter. Again.

“Princess?” His voice held the same gentle tone he’d used when I was twelve, consoling me after Rose had won my part in the school play. “Let’s talk about this.”

A third set of footsteps sent a chill down my spine. Lighter, more graceful. Perfect, like everything else about her.

“Camille?” Rose’s voice dripped feigned 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 beamed; Rose radiated in her new dress; thirteen-year-old me strained to smile through braces and acne. One big, happy family.

What a joke.

The memory struck me like a blow:

—

“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 ever. “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 captivating people.

“Maybe…” Rose’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “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 refusing Rose meant disappointed looks from Mom and lectures from Dad about family loyalty.

Opening night, I watched from the wings as Rose moved the audience to tears. Afterward, Mom showered her with roses, and 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 was verbatim what I’d performed in my original audition.

Rose simply possessed 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 distinguished in his work clothes, and Rose wearing concern like the latest fashion accessory.

“Hello, sister.” My voice remained 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 orchestrated this entire situation from the start?”

“What is she talking about?” Dad turned to Rose, who already had tears welling. Perfect, delicate tears that never smudged 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 ill to attend the charity gala.”

Mom gasped. Dad’s face darkened. But Rose’s mask slipped for a fleeting moment. I saw it this time, that glint of cold calculation behind the concern.

“It wasn’t like that,” she began.

“Really? Then how was it? Explain to everyone how you’ve been calling me weekly, offering marriage advice while sleeping with my husband. Tell them about all the times you helped me pick out anniversary lingerie when Stefan was actually 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 produced my phone, playing Stefan’s last voicemail.

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 ensuing silence was deafening.

Rose recovered first. “I never meant to hurt you. We can’t help who we love…”

The sound of my palm striking 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 commenced—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 devoid of warmth.

“Family?” I smiled, and something in my expression caused them all to recoil. “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, revealing genuine fear this time, not a performance.

“Thank you for the lessons,” I whispered, releasing her wrist. “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, and finally free.