“I’m saying I didn’t agree,” my father replied. His voice shook, but he held eye contact. “And I don’t appreciate being told I did.”
Victoria turned to me, then, like I was the puppet master. “This is what she does,” she declared. “She twists things. She manipulates. She’s always been jealous of Paige.”
Paige made a sound of agreement, arms crossed, posture defensive.
I watched my father’s face, and I realized something with a bitter twist: he didn’t know how to defend himself against her. He’d spent fifteen years living inside the version of reality she curated. He didn’t have practice saying no.
I did.
“Victoria,” I said evenly, “you came to my house without permission. You told me you were moving in. You claimed my bedroom. None of that is normal.”
She scoffed. “Normal is family sharing.”
“No,” I said. “Normal is asking.”
My father rubbed his forehead like a migraine was forming. “Victoria, why are we here?”
Victoria’s gaze flicked to him, sharp as a pin. “Because you need rest,” she said quickly, shifting tactics. “Because you’ve been working too much. Because this house is perfect for you. Your blood pressure—”