Chapter 7: Family Threats

Derek is a good person. My stepsister is not. The difference gets clearer every day.

Lately, Eldest Sister and her new husband are living their best lives—Instagram is full of couple’s yoga, wine tastings, matching pajamas. My stepsister can’t stand it. She doomscrolls their stories and drinks even more wine.

She smashed a Waterford vase from her mom’s collection—glass shards nearly hit my head, glittering on the hardwood like angry diamonds.

I dodged, offering fake encouragement: “Eldest Sister only married a Senator’s son. There are so many high-status men in the city. You’ll totally surpass her.” I kept one eye on the door.

Seeing me duck made her angrier. She hurled another vase—this one full of roses. It exploded against my waist, water and petals everywhere.

Pain shot through me. I bit my lip, refusing to cry.

She glared, voice cold. “Easy for you to say. If I could find one, would I still be here getting angry?” Mascara streaked her cheeks like a raccoon in a breakdown.

True enough. The eligible bachelor pool shrank fast when you ruled out the married, the gay, and the ones who already rejected her.

She grabbed me by the neck, shaking me. Her acrylic nails dug into my skin. “Why can she find a good match and I can’t? You find me someone. If you don’t find me someone, you’re dead. Got it?”

Me: ?!

What?

How is this my job? I’m not a matchmaker—I’m barely keeping myself alive.

I should have kept my mouth shut. My big mouth just signed my death warrant.