When my best friend and I held hands and called him "Brother," Kian's expression cracked like shattered glass.

"You adopted another one?" he snapped.

The moment he learned I was just a foster child with no inheritance rights, he relaxed a little, his arrogance returning.

"I'm warning you—don't you dare bully my sister. Otherwise, don't blame me for being rude!"

I immediately ducked behind my best friend, clutching her sleeve with trembling hands, speaking in timid voice.

"Carmela, why is your brother so biased? If he'd protected you like this back then, you wouldn't have suffered in the orphanage all these years..."

The implication was clear—you lost your real sister, made her live like an orphan, and now you're acting high and mighty defending the fake one?

Sure enough, Uncle John and Aunt Laura's faces darkened instantly.

Kian opened his mouth to retort, but before he could speak, I pinched my friend's waist sharply.

She got the message right away and burst into tears, covering her face dramatically.

"Since Brother doesn't like me, I'll just go back to the orphanage! Come on, Yanna, let's go!"

Uncle John panicked. His hand came down hard and smacked Kian right across his cheek. "Idiot! Is this how you welcome your sister? Get out of my sight!"

Kian glared at us, clutching his face, too humiliated to talk back.

My friend and I exchanged a victorious look.

We won the first battle!

But just as we stepped through the door, we froze.

There she was—the fake daughter, Trisha—standing on a stool, rope tied to the chandelier, crying as she prepared to hang herself.

Oh, please. A pity act already?

Before anyone else could react, I charged forward and shouted, "How dare you! Who told you it's okay to swing indoors?!"

My best friend slid in with a perfect tackle, kicking both the stool and the girl off balance.

Before Trisha could even loop the rope around her neck, she tumbled to the floor in a most ungraceful heap.

"Ah!" she screamed, clutching her arm as everyone rushed toward her.

When the family saw the rope and stool, their faces turned ashen with alarm.

"Trisha, what on earth were you doing?" Aunt Laura cried.

Trisha looked up through her tears, trembling and pitiful. "Big Sister, it's all my fault... I've stolen your place for so many years and made you suffer. I just wanted to repay you with my life!"

She sobbed harder, gazing at Aunt Laura and Uncle John. "Please don't blame Mom, Dad, or Brother. From now on, take good care of them for me, okay?"

Aunt Laura's eyes reddened as she pulled the girl into her arms.

"Don't be silly, child. In our hearts, you'll always be our daughter too."

"You idiot! This has nothing to do with you." Kian turned to glare daggers at us. "Let's see who dares to blame you?"

Meanwhile, Trisha, nestled in Aunt Laura's embrace, cast me a teary but triumphant look from over her shoulder.

Bingo. A classic manipulative "scheming little flower"—playing the victim while throwing shade.

Too bad she picked the wrong opponent.

I smiled sweetly and unleashed my venom.

"So this is the adopted daughter, Trisha? My apologies! For a moment, I thought someone was actually swinging inside the house."

I tilted my head. "By the way, you were trying to hang yourself, weren't you? But who uses a crystal chandelier for that? And what's with that slipknot that loosens the second you tug it? Careful, dear—you might survive the fall but take someone else down with you!"

My best friend clapped her hands, pretending to realize something.

"She's right! That's really dangerous. Good thing I—uh—acted quickly with my foot."

Everyone looked up, noticing the precarious chandelier and the shoddy knot.

Uncle John's face turned black as thunder. "Enough nonsense! What if you hurt your sister?!"

Seeing her act crumble, Trisha sniffled, forcing out another round of sobs.

"I'm sorry, Sister... I just wanted to atone..."

I folded my arms and smiled thinly. "Sister? You must be mistaken. I'm your foster sister. She—" I pushed my best friend forward "—is your real sister. You should be apologizing to her."

That shut her up for half a second—until Kian stormed forward, shielding her like a knight defending his lady.

"Dad! Trisha only wanted to make up for her mistakes! It's Carmela and Yanna who made her fall—they have no manners at all!"

My temper flared instantly.

Damn it—insult me all you want, but insult my best friend? Absolutely not!

"Brother," I said sweetly, "I get that you're trying to play the overprotective hero, but could you at least think before you open that mouth of yours?"

"You're saying Carmela has no manners? Who lost her back then, huh? You did! You're the reason she grew up in an orphanage, and you dare call her uneducated?"

"She's the real daughter of this house—her identity was stolen by your precious little thief. Tell me, where's the logic in that?"

"Honestly, the way you talk, it's like your intestines connect directly to your brain. Even a dung beetle would need to pop open your skull just to check the flavor!"

The room went dead silent.

Only my best friend squeezed my hand, eyes glistening. "Bestie, I love you!"

Kian's face turned a dangerous shade of blue. His voice dropped, shaking with anger.

"You—you dared to insult me?!"

"So what if I did?" I shot back. "I'm not done—I'll insult her too!"

I planted my hands on my hips and turned to glare at Trisha. "And you—stop pretending you're some precious gem. Even a trash bag couldn't contain all that fake sincerity you're spilling."

"Didn't you say you were too unwell to get out of bed? Funny—when you were about to hang yourself just now, you looked full of energy!"

"Let me guess—the ‘sickness' came the moment Carmela came home? You just couldn't stand not being the only little princess anymore, right?"

My words hit her squarely in the heart. She tried to argue, but I cut her off mercilessly.

"Fake sickness, fake suicide, fake tears—what's next? You think my best friend asked you to ‘repent'? You're both daughters of this family, so why are you the only one acting like you've got brain damage?"

Her face turned pale as paper. "Y-you—you—"

I laughed coldly. "You what, you? Why are you stuttering? Go see a doctor, and if your brain's malfunctioning, try reading a book!"

Unable to fight back, she reverted to her favorite act—the helpless, delicate flower routine.

"Carmela, I'm sorry... I didn't mean to. I was just scared you'd hate me."

Then she looked at me pitifully. "Yanna, if you want to scold someone, scold me. Just don't take it out on my brother and parents."

There it was again. Same act, zero creativity.

I was too lazy to keep sparring with her, so I turned to the stunned Lambert couple. "I heard we'll be in the same class as our dear sister?"

They both nodded quickly.

"Perfect," I smiled. "We'll be sure to take good care of her. By the way, which room will be ours?"

Aunt Laura hurried to lead us upstairs.

Trisha followed, red-eyed and trembling, putting on another generous act as she opened a pink, frilly room.

"Sister, if you don't mind... you can have this one. It's actually yours to begin with..."

Before we could respond, Kian rushed forward again, blocking the doorway like a guard dog.

"This is Mom's gift to my sister! Country bumpkins like you don't deserve a princess room!"

I could feel my temper spike again, but Aunt Laura caught my glare and quickly intervened, frowning at her son.

"Carmela, you can pick any room you like. Think of it as our way of making up for lost time."

My best friend glanced at the nauseatingly pink decor, wrinkled her nose, then turned toward a much larger, brighter bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Then we'll take that one! It's big enough for me and Yanna!"

Kian's jaw dropped. "You—you've got to be kidding! That's our parents' room!"

I flashed a sunny smile at Aunt Laura.

"Mom, you did say any room, right? You're not taking that back now, are you?"

Her mouth twitched, but after a moment, she nodded helplessly.

"Good! We've been in the car all day—we're exhausted. You and Dad should rest early too!"

And before anyone could respond, I grabbed my friend, shut the door with a satisfying bang, and left the whole family frozen in place.

From that day on, our new life officially began.

For the next week, Carmela and I went on a glorious shopping spree.

After eight years of scrimping and suffering, it felt heavenly to finally buy whatever we wanted without looking at price tags, without hesitation, just enjoying retail therapy.

We came back with an absurd amount of shopping bags—several carloads' worth—dressed like two pampered heiresses on a spree.

Every time Trisha made some sour remark about us "wasting money," I shut her down with sharp, merciless comebacks.

When she couldn't win with words, she switched to tricks.

Day one, she pretended to be weak and "accidentally" dropped a vase from the upstairs balcony, aiming straight for us. Carmela caught it one-handed without even flinching.

Day two, she "accidentally" tipped over a pot of soup at the dining table—trying to burn my best friend. Carmela coolly flipped the pot back, and Trisha ended up shrieking in pain with scalded hands.

Day three, she slipped her own diamond necklace under our pillows, then brought the whole family in for a dramatic "thief reveal."

Unfortunately for her, I played the surveillance footage showing her sneaking into our room at midnight.

She was forced to backpedal, tears brimming at the corner of her eyes, claiming she just wanted to "surprise us with a gift."

After that series of defeats, even her thick skin couldn't save her. She went quiet—but we both knew she was plotting something worse.

Sure enough, a month later at the class meeting of our elite academy, she struck.

With red-rimmed eyes and a trembling voice, she introduced us to the class:

"These are the sisters my parents adopted from an orphanage. Please take care of them."

Just one sentence—and she exposed us as adopted, not real daughters.

The room went still.

Then whispers spread like wildfire:

"What? The richest family just adopts girls like it's a hobby?"

"Poor Trisha, having to share her parents' love with two random people..."

I smiled sweetly and nudged my friend to hand me the DNA report. Then, with deliberate cheer, I said, "Oh, that's funny, Trisha. You've been nesting in someone else's home for eight years, and you're still playing the victim?"

"Let's make things clear—you and I are both adopted. But unlike you, I never pretended to be something I'm not."

I held up the papers and continued, my tone dripping with irony. "Hi everyone, I'm the best friend of Carmela—the real daughter of the Lambert family—and yes, I was adopted too. But the Lambert family didn't take me in for fun. They were just afraid someone might bully Carmela, so they wanted me to protect her. Like today."

The room went silent again—and this time, all eyes turned toward Trisha, filled with contempt.

What was this situation? It was like a thief crying "Catch the thief!"—the irony couldn't be more ridiculous.

Even the girls who normally didn't get along with her joined in the mockery.

"That's right! You act like some noble rich girl every day, but turns out you're just a country pheasant pretending to be one!"

Their laughter rang out, sharp and merciless—each chuckle landing like a slap across Trisha's face.

Her expression twisted with humiliation and anger, her eyes glistening as if she might burst into tears at any moment.

From that day on, she became the school's infamous "fake princess," the pretentious girl everyone loved to hate.

To save face, she threw herself into learning piano and dance, hoping to rebuild her "elegant" image.

Meanwhile, I joined a comedy troupe to learn stand-up and crosstalk, while my best friend signed up for martial arts and tai chi.

If Trisha wanted grace, we would bring the thunder.

During school performances, her delicate recitals never stood a chance against my stand-up comedy or Carmela's "breaking bricks with her chest" act.

Soon enough, I became the campus favorite with my sharp tongue and humor, while Carmela earned respect by protecting weaker students.

With us around, bullying disappeared, fights stopped—the whole school became brighter.

The two "problem girls" had transformed into confident, admired young women by sixteen.

Even the Lambert couple grew fond of us and began planning a public announcement to introduce us to the world.

"It's time to give Carmela her rightful shares at the coming-of-age ceremony," Aunt Laura said.

"She's our real daughter after all. The company has been under pressure from the Geron family—a marriage alliance could stabilize things. Thankfully, their son doesn't object to meeting her. We'll see which girl's fate favors..."

Outside the study door, Trisha clenched her fists so hard her knuckles went white.

A cruel smile tugged at her lips.

It seemed she'd already made up her mind—whatever she was planning next, it wouldn't be pretty.