“That’s mine,” I growled.
Bianca yanked her arm back, a defiant smirk twisting her lips.
“It looks better on me,” she taunted.
“You broke into my room.”
“So what?” she sneered.
The bracelet snapped in half during the struggle. The pieces scattered to the ground with a sickening crunch.
I saw red. The rage was all-consuming. I shoved her—hard.
She shrieked as she lost her balance, stumbling backward before plunging into the pool with a splash.
The sound echoed through the night. Water churned violently. And then… silence.
I stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the ruined pieces of my mother’s memory clutched in my hand. I didn’t regret it. Not for a second.
But then I heard her. Bianca. She was flailing in the pool, her arms waving wildly as she screamed for help. Her voice was panicked, desperate. “Help! Help! I can’t swim!”
I stood frozen, watching her flounder in the water. Her cries echoed, but I didn’t move. I didn’t offer her an ounce of sympathy.
She wasn’t a child. Not anymore. And in that moment, I realized I didn’t care if she drowned.