Calleigh POV:

The rest of the evening was a masterclass in tension. The lemon chicken tasted like ash in my mouth. Every clink of silverware against porcelain sounded like a gunshot in the heavy silence that Fiona' s comments had created.

She, of course, acted as if nothing had happened. Or rather, she acted like a chastened child, trying desperately to win back favor. She was excessively complimentary of Geneva' s cooking, hung on Kenneth' s every word about the stock market, and clung to Brock' s arm like a life raft.

Her eyes, however, kept finding mine across the long mahogany table. They were no longer veiled. They were openly hostile, filled with a chilling sort of appraisal, as if she were measuring me for a coffin.

I did my best to disappear. I focused on my plate, offered one-word answers when spoken to, and tried to breathe through the knot of dread that had taken up permanent residence in my chest. It felt like I' d swallowed a rock.

After dinner, Kenneth clapped a hand on Brock' s shoulder. "Son, come with me to the study for a minute. There' s a contract I want you to look over."

It was a clear dismissal. He was separating Brock from Fiona, giving the women a moment. Geneva started clearing the plates, her movements efficient and deliberate. I stood to help, grateful for the distraction.

"I' ll help," Fiona chirped, jumping up. But she didn' t head for the kitchen. She headed for me.

She came up beside me at the sideboard, her perfume cloyingly sweet. She looped her arm through mine, her grip surprisingly strong, her nails digging slightly into my skin.

"Calleigh, I really am so sorry about earlier," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a terrible habit of speaking my mind. No filter, you know?"

She winked, as if we were coconspirators. "But I get it."

I stiffened, trying to pull my arm away, but her grip tightened. "Get what, Fiona?"

Her smile was pure venom, wrapped in sugar. "I get it," she repeated, her voice even lower. "This life. The house, the money, the name. It' s a lot to give up. You have to protect your position."

My blood ran cold.

"But you need to understand," she continued, her breath warm against my ear, her voice dripping with condescension. "Brock is mine now. And while it' s cute that you' ve had this little family setup, things are going to change. I' m going to be his wife. I' m going to be the next Mrs. Sampson."

She paused, letting the implication sink in.

"You' re… the other woman, in a way. The sister who isn' t a sister. It' s just a matter of time before it becomes awkward. You should probably start thinking about your own future. One that doesn' t involve living in your brother' s house."

I stared at her, speechless. The sheer audacity was breathtaking.

A bitter, incredulous laugh bubbled up in my throat. "Are you serious?"

I finally yanked my arm free.

"This is my home, Fiona. Kenneth and Geneva are my parents. Brock is my brother. That is my future. I' m not going anywhere."

Her smile froze for a fraction of a second, then re-formed, wider and more brittle than before. She reached out and patted my hand, a gesture that was meant to be placating but felt like a slap.

"Of course, of course. You have to keep up appearances. I understand." Her voice was a purr. "But when I am the lady of this house, I' ll be sure to take very good care of you. We' ll find you a nice little apartment somewhere. Maybe even a suitable husband. You won' t have to worry about a thing."

That was it. The condescending, dismissive tone. The assumption that my life, my position in this family, was something she could manage and dispose of at her leisure.

I stepped back, putting a solid foot of distance between us. My voice came out low and cold, all the forced politeness stripped away.

"The lady of this house is in the kitchen making coffee. Her name is Geneva Sampson. And if you ever become a part of this family, which I' m starting to seriously doubt, you' d do well to remember that."

I turned, my back ramrod straight. "And for the record, I don' t need you to take care of me. I never have, and I never will."

Fiona' s face finally, blessedly, fell. The mask of saccharine sweetness dissolved, revealing the ugly, contorted rage beneath.

"You' ll regret that," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. "You have no idea who you' re dealing with."

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Calleigh POV:

"You think you' re so secure, don' t you?" Fiona' s voice was no longer a whisper. It was sharp, laced with a fury she didn' t bother to hide. "Just a little charity case they keep around for old times' sake. You don' t have a drop of Sampson blood in you. You' re nothing."

My own anger, a cold, hard thing, rose to meet hers. "I' m a Sampson in every way that matters," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "And you, Fiona? What are you, exactly? Besides my brother' s girlfriend of a few weeks?"

The barb hit its mark. Her face flushed a blotchy red. She opened her mouth to retaliate, but the sound of the study door opening cut her off.

Brock stepped out, his brow furrowed from whatever business talk he' d had with our father.

Instantly, Fiona' s entire demeanor changed. It was like watching a magic trick. The rage vanished, replaced by a mask of trembling vulnerability. Tears welled in her big blue eyes as she rushed to his side.

"Brock," she choked out, burying her face in his chest. "It was awful. She… she was so cruel to me."

I didn' t even have the energy to be shocked. I just felt a profound sense of disgust. I turned to walk away, to go up to my room and scrub the feeling of her off my skin.

"Calleigh."

Brock' s voice stopped me. It wasn' t angry, not yet, but it was weighted with a confusion that tilted toward accusation. I turned back slowly.

He was holding Fiona, stroking her hair as she sobbed. "What' s going on? Fiona' s really upset. She said you two had a fight."

He looked at me, expecting an explanation. An apology.

And over his shoulder, Fiona looked at me too. Her face was still buried in his shirt, but she lifted her head just enough for our eyes to meet. Her tears were gone. In their place was a look of pure, triumphant malice.

A wave of ice washed through my veins. He wasn' t going to believe me.

"Brock," I began, my voice tight. "She threatened me. She told me I should move out, that I don' t belong here."

I watched his face, praying for a flicker of understanding, of loyalty.

Instead, his brow just furrowed deeper. "Calleigh, come on. That doesn' t sound like Fiona at all. She' s just… a little insecure. She' s not used to our family dynamic. You have to admit, it' s a little unusual."

He was echoing her own words. The same poison, now delivered by the one person I thought would always be in my corner.

"Unusual?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "We' re a family. What' s unusual about that?"

"She didn' t mean it like that," he insisted, his patience clearly wearing thin. "She' s just trying to understand her place. Don' t be so hard on her."

I stared at him, at my brother, the boy who taught me to ride a bike and helped me with my calculus homework, now defending a woman he barely knew over me. The feeling of betrayal was so sharp, so sudden, it knocked the breath out of me.

I felt like he' d slapped me.

"I see," I said, my voice flat. I couldn' t look at him anymore. I couldn' t look at the triumphant smirk on Fiona' s face. I nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement. "Okay."

I turned and walked away, not looking back. Each step up the grand, curving staircase felt like a mile. I didn' t stop until I was in my room with the door locked behind me.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart a cold, heavy lump in my chest. The phone on my nightstand buzzed. It was my best friend, Maya.

How' s the new girlfriend? Demon or saint?

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I typed back a single word.

Demon.

Instantly, my phone started ringing. I answered it.

"Okay, spill," Maya' s voice demanded, no preamble. "What did she do?"

The dam broke. The words came pouring out of me-the whispers of rumors, the condescending offer to find me an apartment, the outright denial of my place in my own family.

"-and Brock," I finished, my voice cracking. "He defended her. He told me I was being too sensitive."

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Then, Maya exploded.

"Are you KIDDING me? That manipulative, social-climbing, Grade-A BITCH!" The string of curses that followed was both creative and cathartic. "And Brock? What the hell is wrong with him? Is he blind? Deaf? Does he have cotton for brains?"

I managed a weak smile. "She' s very pretty, Maya."

"Oh, I don' t give a damn if she looks like a Victoria' s Secret angel who shits rainbows! She sounds like a venomous snake! A freeloader? Telling you to move out? She' s known you for five minutes! She' s the one who needs to get a grip on reality, not you!"

Hearing the outrage in her voice, so pure and undiluted, made me feel a little less crazy.

"He' s just infatuated," I said, trying to find an excuse for him, for me. "It' ll wear off."

"Calleigh," Maya said, her voice softening slightly. "This isn' t just infatuation. This is a five-alarm fire. This woman sees you as a threat, and she will burn this whole house down to get you out of it. You need to be careful."

I let out a long, shaky breath. "I know."

As I hung up the phone, the last of my hope that this was all a terrible misunderstanding evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hard certainty. Fiona wasn't just insecure. She was a predator. And she had just marked her territory.

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Calleigh POV:

I told myself it would be a one-time thing. A bad first impression. But I had severely underestimated Fiona' s tenacity. She wasn't just a predator; she was a boa constrictor, slowly, methodically tightening her grip.

She became a fixture at the Sampson house. She was always there, draped over Brock, her laugh echoing in rooms where it didn' t belong. She played the part of the perfect future daughter-in-law to a nauseating degree, always remembering Kenneth' s favorite scotch or bringing Geneva a bouquet of their favorite peonies.

But her attacks on me became a kind of sport for her, a series of small, calculated cuts.

She' d do it when Brock was present but distracted, or when the parents were just out of earshot.

"Calleigh, that dress is… interesting," she' d say, looking me up and down with a pitying smile. "It' s a bit severe for a young woman. You should let me take you shopping. We need to find you something that makes you look less… academic."

Or she' d bring up my studies with a tone of feigned admiration that was pure condescension. "All that work for your architecture degree, it' s so impressive! But really, you don' t need to try so hard. You' ll always have the Sampsons to take care of you, won' t you?"

The implication was always the same: I was a dependent, a charity case, a bookish spinster-in-training who didn' t belong in their glamorous world.

The final straw, before the real explosion, came during a small family dinner with a few of Kenneth' s cousins. One of them, a sweet elderly aunt named Carol, was praising me.

"That scholarship to Columbia is just wonderful, Calleigh. Your parents would have been so proud."

I felt a familiar warmth spread through my chest. Before I could thank her, Fiona, who had been sitting beside me, slung an arm around my shoulders. Her touch felt like a spider crawling on my skin.

"Isn' t she just the best?" Fiona chirped, squeezing me tightly. "Brock and I were just talking about it. We' re so proud of our little sister." She emphasized the word 'little' with a patronizing pat on my arm. "In fact, once Brock and I are married, I' m going to make it my personal mission to find Calleigh a husband. It' s high time she was out of the house and starting her own family. We can' t have her becoming an old maid, can we?"

The table went silent.

You could have heard a pin drop. The cousins exchanged awkward glances. Geneva' s face went rigid.

Being called a dependent was one thing. Having my future mapped out for me like I was a piece of property to be disposed of, in front of my family? That crossed a line I didn' t even know existed.

My entire body went cold. I slowly put down my fork.

Geneva shot a look at Brock, a silent, furious command to control his girlfriend. Brock, to his credit, looked mortified. He reached for Fiona' s arm, his voice a low hiss. "Fiona, stop."

But Fiona was on a roll. She either didn' t see his warning or didn' t care. She picked up a piece of asparagus from the serving dish and placed it on my plate.

"Here, honey, you need to eat more. You' re too thin," she said, her voice dripping with fake concern.

I stared at the asparagus spear lying amongst my mashed potatoes. I looked at her perfectly made-up face, her smug, smiling eyes. And something inside me, something that had been patiently absorbing her poison for weeks, finally snapped.

I was about to speak, to say something unforgivable, when a deep voice cut through the tension like a guillotine.

"Fiona."

It was Kenneth. He had set down his wine glass, and the sound echoed in the silent room. He wasn' t looking at her, but his voice was layered with so much cold authority that she flinched.

"Calleigh is our daughter," he said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of an iron decree. "Her future is her own to decide. Her place in this house is permanent and non-negotiable. This is the last time I want to hear you, or anyone else, suggest otherwise. Is that clear?"

Fiona' s smile vanished. Her face went from smug to chalk-white in a heartbeat.

"Yes, Kenneth," she mumbled, her eyes wide with shock. "I… I' m sorry. I was just joking."

"It wasn' t funny," he said, finally turning to look at her. His gaze was glacial. "Don' t do it again."

He picked up his wine glass and took a sip, the matter closed.

The rest of the dinner was agonizing. Fiona didn' t say another word, just picked at her food with a stormy expression. I knew I should have felt victorious. My father had defended me, unequivocally. But all I felt was a knot of dread. I hadn' t won a battle. I had just made the enemy more determined.

And as Fiona shot me a look from across the table, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred, I knew her next attack wouldn' t be with words.

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