Alissa Blake
I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped into that house. But I pretended I didn’t, because it was easier that way.
The living room was almost unrecognizable. Everything was much more organized than I remembered, and unfortunately, I couldn’t say my memories were vague. I remembered everything far too well.
The old furniture had been replaced by modern, expensive pieces, seemingly sophisticated.
My parents were never the homey type, and they certainly were never the kind to take such good care of a house. This only confirmed what I already suspected—this house was not a home for me. Maybe it wasn’t even a home for them. It was just a perfectly staged set, a carefully crafted illusion.
My mother led me to the couch and insisted that I sit, offering me herbal tea, which I politely declined. She didn’t push. My father, sitting in the same leather armchair I remembered from childhood, crossed his legs and watched my every move with the same calculating look he always had—the look of a man assessing an unfamiliar piece in a game, deciding whether or not it belonged.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
It didn’t take long before the front door swung open, and a blonde whirlwind with brown eyes came rushing toward me.
"Alissa!"
I blinked, stunned, as a pair of thin arms wrapped tightly around my waist. The sudden touch made me freeze for a second—but not as much as the sound of that small voice calling my name.
Morgan.
The air left my lungs as I processed the little girl clinging to me as if she had known me her entire life. Small, skinny, dressed in a neatly pressed school uniform, her blonde hair pulled into a perfectly tied ponytail.
Nothing about her resembled our parents.
Nothing about her resembled the messy, lonely child I had been in this very house.
My first instinct was to look at my parents, expecting them to intervene, to say something—but they just sat there, watching with satisfaction. Like they had just handed me an unexpected gift and were waiting for my gratitude.
"You’re really my sister!" Morgan said, pulling back slightly to look up at me. She was smiling, and God, she actually looked happy to see me. "I saw you on the internet!"
Ah.
The missing piece of the puzzle.
So she knew about me from the internet. Not because our parents had told her about me, not because they had spoken of me as part of the family.
"You did, huh?" My voice sounded strange even to myself.
"Yes!" She nodded eagerly, her eyes shining. "I saw the pictures of when you got hurt, and I saw that Holden Young visited you! Do you really know him?"
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
What the fuck.
"I do."
She let out a delighted squeal as if that were the most exciting thing in the world. My stomach twisted as I realized that even to my own sister, I was nothing more than an interesting story. Not a person. Not a sister. Just a face on a blank screen.
My mother cleared her throat, cutting through the moment, and for once, I almost felt grateful.
"Morgan, sweetheart, why don’t you go get changed? Dinner is almost ready, and I’m sure you and Alissa will have plenty of time to talk afterward."
Morgan nodded, still smiling at me before running up the stairs. I watched her go, tension coiling in my chest.
An arrhythmia or a heart attack.
As soon as her bedroom door closed, my attention snapped back to my parents. They were far too relaxed as if everything was going exactly according to plan. As if I were walking straight into their carefully laid trap.
Bastards.
I crossed my arms.
"So, do you want to tell me what the game is?"
My mother smiled—that soft, peaceful expression that filled me with rage. I knew better. I knew it was fake.
"Alissa, there’s no need to be so defensive. We’re just happy you’re here."
Sure. Of course, they were.
"Right." I narrowed my eyes. "Because you care so much about me, right?"
She opened her mouth, but my father spoke first.
"If we didn’t care, do you think we’d have you here?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I know you have your reasons to doubt us, but things have changed, Alissa. We’ve changed. We’re part of the community now. We have responsibilities."
"You’re part of the community?" I repeated, a bitter laugh escaping me.
"Your father is on the city’s administrative council. And I’m very involved with the church." My mother said it with pride, as if being active in church somehow made her a saint and erased all the years of being a terrible mother.
It was funny.
Ridiculous, actually.
But not surprising.
"How convenient." I tilted my head. "Is this where I ask how you managed that? This… influence in the city?"
My mother’s expression turned serious, but my father only smiled.
A small, smug smile.
The kind of smile that said more than any words could.
The kind that told me he knew I knew.
And I did. Fuck, I did.
I knew they hadn’t achieved this on their own.
I knew it wasn’t talent, effort, or goodwill.
It was Denver. Denver Young.
Because if even my parents could use me to get something, then who else wouldn’t?
"Alissa, darling." My mother placed a hand over mine. It was cold. I had always hated her touch. "Let’s have dinner. I’m sure it’ll be good for all of us."
Maybe it would.
But all it was doing for me was making me feel even sicker.