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.

Over the next two years, Trisha and Kian changed in ways that made my skin crawl.

They stopped provoking us.

They even began to act friendly.

Kian often chatted warmly with Carmela, saying that once she got into university, he'd personally teach her how to manage the family's business.

Trisha became the picture of a dutiful younger sister—obedient, polite, full of flattery.

On our eighteenth birthday they were unusually generous with gifts and congratulations. Before the banquet began, they suggested a "surprise"—a trip to the mountaintop to watch fireworks. My best friend and I, still naive enough to be curious, climbed into the car and followed them.

But when we arrived at that desolate mountain peak, the night turned cold—and deadly.

The moment we stepped out of the car, several burly men burst out of the tall grass, eyes gleaming with malice.

Carmela reacted first—throwing two punches, taking two men down—but before she could handle the rest, Trisha clung to her leg, screaming for help.

"Help! Don't hurt my sister!"

I moved to help, but a rough hand slammed a drugged handkerchief over my mouth and nose. My vision blurred; my knees went soft.

"Yanna!" Carmela screamed, rushing toward me—and the next thing I knew, the same damp cloth covered her face as well.

Everything went dark. In less than a minute, we both went limp on the ground.

Kian and Trisha, who were crying in panic and fighting with the criminal just a second ago, laughed out loud.

"Take them somewhere out of sight. Remember, don't kill them, just take clear footage."

Kian crouched beside my best friend, gave her cheek a sharp pat, and sneered. "Especially this one. I want her ruined for life."

The gang leader chuckled, rubbing his grimy hands together.

"Don't worry, Mr. Kian. We'll give you exactly what you want. Heh heh."

They hauled us into the back of a van and drove off. In the front seat, the kidnappers joked about how easy it had been.

"Rich family, huh? The son and daughter plotting against their own sisters. Guess we're the lucky ones tonight!"

"Never had a chance to play with such pretty little rich girls before, hahaha..."

They stopped at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts. The men popped the trunk to drag us out—and their smirks froze like they'd seen a ghost.