My father, Samuel, stared down at his plate. My eighteen-year-old stepsister, Chloe, leaned back with a satisfied smile.
I was twenty-five, in the same house where I’d spent my childhood — the house my mother helped design before she passed.
Chloe wanted my bedroom as a studio for her social-media content. « You’re barely home anyway. I need the natural light. »
My father cleared his throat. « Paige, maybe just do it for a few months. Keep the peace. »
Keep the peace. Three words that had followed me for ten years.
I looked at him. « Tell her, » I said quietly.
For half a second I saw hesitation. Then his eyes dropped to his plate. He said nothing.
Something inside me went still.
« Tomorrow morning, your bedroom belongs to Chloe, » Gwendolyn said. « If you don’t like it, leave. »
I folded my napkin. « All right. »
