CHAPTER 5 — Navira's POV
"Sister Talk. A.K.A. Agnes Attempts a Threat."
Dinner ends with everyone pretending to be normal.
Which is hilarious, because nothing about this family is normal.
Vivienne keeps staring at my face like I'm a fragile snowflake.
Victor keeps clearing his throat every five seconds.
Alden and Alastair keep watching me like I'm a puzzle with a missing piece.
And Agnes…
Agnes keeps giving me the side-eye like she's waiting for me to spontaneously combust.
Probably because of my albinism.
White hair, pale lashes, snow-pale skin.
I look nothing like them.
And exactly like the daughter they lost.
Lucky me.
When the plates are finally cleared, Agnes grabs my wrist.
Not hard.
Just… aggressively polite.
"Navira," she says, smiling way too big, "let's talk. Sister to sister."
Oh.
Oh this is going to be good.
I tilt my head.
"Of course," I say sweetly. "Lead the way, sis."
She forces another smile and drags me toward the guest lounge — the one with zero witnesses.
Great choice, honestly.
If I wanted to hide a body, I'd pick this room too.
She shuts the door behind us and spins around dramatically.
Then comes The Voice.
The trembling one she uses when she wants sympathy.
"Navira… I just want to make things clear."
I blink innocently.
"Okay."
She hesitates, clearly expecting me to start crying or apologizing.
I don't.
So she continues, voice small:
"Just because you're… back doesn't mean you get to take everything."
Ah.
There it is.
I smile politely.
"Agnes, why would I take everything?"
She swallows.
"I-I mean—Mom and Dad love me. And Alden and Alastair—"
"Oh, right," I interrupt warmly. "They love you."
She stiffens.
"Of course," she says. "They raised me."
I nod.
"And yet every time I call them Mom and Dad, you look like you want to cry."
Her face turns beet red.
"I—That's not—!"
"Agnes."
I say it softly.
Dangerously soft.
She freezes.
I take a slow step closer.
Not threatening.
Just… watching her crack.
"You think I'm here to steal your life," I whisper.
"That I'm some scary albino ghost girl who crawled out of an orphanage to replace you."
She sucks in a sharp breath.
Bingo.
I smile sweetly.
"But I don't want your life, Agnes."
She relaxes for 0.3 seconds.
I lean in just a bit.
"I want a better one."
Her eyes widen.
Perfect.
"And here's the thing…" I continue calmly.
"You're not my enemy."
She blinks, confused.
"What?"
"You"—I gesture lightly at her—"are a speed bump. A small one. I'll step over you eventually, sure, but I'm not obsessed with you."
Her jaw drops.
I shrug.
"If I wanted to destroy you, I would've cried harder downstairs. One more orphanage story and Mom would legally adopt me twice."
She lets out a strangled little gasp.
I tilt my head.
"But I didn't. Because I'm nice."
"You're not nice," she snaps, finally letting the mask slip. "You're terrifying!"
I beam.
"Thank you."
She looks like she wants to throw a pillow at me.
I continue, voice soft and calm:
"You know what your problem is, Agnes?
You manipulate like a beginner.
Crying, guilt-tripping, shaking — it's obvious. It's sloppy."
She sputters, offended.
"And I?"
I gesture to myself.
"I manipulate like a professional. Clean, subtle, believable. I don't have to scream or cry or beg. I just… exist."
She stares at me like she's finally seeing what I am.
Good.
I step back, smile politely, and pat her shoulder.
"Don't worry, sis. There's space for both of us here."
I pause.
"Just not on the same level."
Her mouth opens. No sound comes out.
I grab the door handle.
"Oh—and Agnes?"
She lifts her chin shakily.
I smirk.
"If you're going to cry again, at least try to make it believable."
Then I open the door and walk out.
Leaving her behind in stunned silence.