Chapter 3

ROSE’S POINT OF VIEW

I swirled the champagne in my crystal flute, watching the bubbles dance. Victory tasted as sweet as I’d imagined all these years. My penthouse living room overlooked the city where I’d spent twenty years pretending to be the perfect adopted daughter, loving sister, and supportive friend.

What a joke.

“To freedom,” I whispered to my reflection. The woman staring back smiled—perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect lies. Just like always.

My phone buzzed again. Another missed call from Stefan. He’d been calling incessantly since Camille left, likely worried I’d change my mind now that everything was out in the open. Poor, predictable Stefan. Still believing he controlled anything.

I kicked off my Louboutins and sank into the leather couch, letting memories wash over me like warm wine.

The first time I saw Camille Lewis, I hated her.

I was thirteen, fresh from foster care, desperate to please my new parents. They’d brought me to their massive house—manicured lawn, marble floors—promising a fresh start, a real family.

Then this skinny girl with braces and messy hair bounced down the stairs, all eager smiles and innocent eyes.

“Hi! I’m Camille. I’ve always wanted a sister!”

She hugged me in the foyer, unconcerned by my secondhand clothes or the scent of the group home’s detergent. Pure, genuine joy at having a sister.

I wanted to vomit.

She possessed everything I’d spent thirteen years dreaming of: parents who genuinely wanted her, a home where she belonged, a future secured by the Lewis name.

And she didn’t even appreciate it.

That first dinner, I watched her slouch, talk with her mouth full, and use the wrong fork for salad. She laughed too loudly, asked too many questions.

“Rose has such lovely manners,” Mrs. Lewis—Mom—said, smiling at me. “Perhaps you could teach your new sister, Camille.”

Then I saw it: the first crack in Camille’s perfect world—the dimming of her smile, her straightening posture, her increased effort.

It was beautiful.

My phone buzzed, pulling me back to the present. Stefan’s face illuminated my screen; his fifth call in an hour. With a sigh, I answered.

“Darling, you’re being needy.”

“Rose.” His voice was rough. Drinking? “She’s gone. Really gone. Blocked my number, cleaned out her closet…”

“Isn’t that what we wanted?” My voice remained gentle, soothing—the tone I’d used countless times counseling Camille through marital problems I’d carefully orchestrated.

“I just… the way she looked at me…”

“Stefan, sweetheart.” Steel edged into my sweetness. “Second thoughts? After everything we’ve been through?”

“No! No, of course not. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

“Then stop calling about your ex-wife. It’s pathetic.”

I hung up, tossing the phone aside. Men were so predictably weak. Even Stefan, groomed for four years before being steered toward Camille, still needed constant management.

But he’d served his purpose. Like everyone else in my carefully constructed game.

The family photo on my mantel caught my eye—my adoption day. I stood in the center, of course. Always the center. Camille was pushed to the edge, straining for a smile.

God, it had been easy. Almost too easy.

A whispered suggestion of Camille’s instability. Concerned conversations with Mom about my dear sister’s emotional state. Casual mentions to Dad about Camille’s struggles with adult responsibilities.

Fourteen years of groundwork, positioning myself as the responsible daughter, the ideal, while slowly crushing Camille’s confidence, relationships, and sense of self.

The college rejection was inspired. One tearful conversation with Mom about finding Camille’s “secret” diary, filled with dark thoughts and destructive plans—plans I’d written myself, in Camille’s childish handwriting, meticulously forged.

Suddenly, their precious daughter wasn’t ready for college. Needed time to “find herself.” Needed to stay close to home.

Where I could watch her.

I sipped champagne, savoring the moment. This was what I truly wanted—not Stefan (a useful pawn), not the Lewis fortune (though that would follow)—but to watch perfect Camille break. To see her realize her family, love, and security were built on my lies.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mom: “Rose, darling, please come over. Your father and I need to talk about what happened.”

I smiled, planning my performance: tearful confusion, a reluctant confession about Stefan, gentle concern for Camille’s mental state.

They’d thank me for protecting them from their unstable daughter.

I selected the perfect outfit: subtle, expensive. Grieving sister, not celebrating victor.

Camille’s wedding gift—the massive walk-in closet—“So you’ll always have space for your amazing fashion sense,” she’d said, hugging me.

Even then, after years of stealing her spotlight, opportunities, and parental approval, she’d loved me. Trusted me.

Idiot.

I chose a cream cashmere sweater, remembering Camille borrowing my clothes in high school. How I’d “remember” needing an outfit when she had something important.

She’d always returned them, apologized. Always tried to be the perfect sister.

My reflection caught my eye. For a moment, I saw the scared, angry foster kid.

But then I blinked, and I was perfect Rose. Flawless. Unerring.

Slipping on my Cartier bracelet—another gift from my dear sister—I prepared for my next performance. The family meeting required reluctant honesty, devastated betrayal.

“Oh, Camille,” I whispered, practicing my worried frown. “What have you done to yourself?”

But as I left, something paused me. That look in Camille’s eyes before she left—unseen in twenty years of pushing, testing, breaking her.

It was almost… understanding.

Like she’d seen through my mask.

I shook off the feeling. Camille was weak, as I’d made her. She’d run, lick her wounds, maybe restart elsewhere.

But she’d never be free of me. I’d ensured that years ago.