I never told my parents I was a federal judge. To them, I was still the “dropout failure,” while my sister was the golden child. Then she took my car and committed a hit-and-run. My mother grabbed my shoulders, screaming, “You have no future anyway! Say you were driving!” I stayed calm and asked my sister quietly, “Did you cause the accident and flee?” She snapped back, “Yes, I did. Who would believe you? You look like a criminal.” That was enough. I pulled out my phone. “Open the court,” I said. “I have the evidence.”

Before she could react, headlights swerved wildly back through the gate. The black sedan screeched up the drive and slammed to a stop inches from the garage. The engine choked. The smell of burning rubber filled the night. The driver door burst open.

Brittany stumbled out in a glittering dress, hair undone, mascara streaked. A sharp tang of alcohol followed her like a fog. Cassandra’s gaze dropped to the front of the vehicle.

The hood was crushed. The bumper bent inward. And streaked across the metal was fresh dark blood.

Brittany began sobbing. “I did not mean to. I did not see him. There was a bike. I heard a crack. I just drove. I just drove.”

Vivian and Lawrence rushed outside. Vivian stopped in horror when she saw the damage. She did not ask about the injured person. She did not call for help. Her eyes snapped to Cassandra instead, cold calculation already replacing panic.

“You will take responsibility,” Vivian said, grabbing Cassandra’s arms. “You will say you were driving. Brittany has a future. You do not.”

Cassandra stared at her mother. “You want me to confess to a crime I did not commit.”