I stared at my own reflection in the glass—dark hair pulled into a sloppy bun, an oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, eyes ringed with the faint shadows of too many late nights and too little sleep. Somewhere far below, a car horn blared. Above, a plane traced a line through the sky.
“The party,” I said slowly, because I genuinely wanted to see how far she’d go with this, “you specifically didn’t invite me to?”
She scoffed. “Oh, please.”
“The one where you told everyone I was too busy to attend my own stepsister’s celebration?” My tone stayed calm, flat, years of practice smoothing out the jagged edges of my emotions. It was a trick I’d learned early in life: never show Victoria you’d been hurt. She fed on that.
Victoria laughed, a brittle sound I could practically feel scraping across my skin. “Don’t play the victim, Alexandra. Everyone knows you’re jealous of Lily’s success. And now you’ll never set foot in that beach house again. I’ve made sure of it.”
Jealous. That word again. It had been her favorite label for me since the day she married my father—and not because it was true, but because it was convenient.