As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I flung the agreement hard at Yosef’s face, rising to make my point crystal clear. "I need my rest. You can both get out now. And don’t forget to take your garbage with you."

How had it taken me this long to see him for who he really was? The man I’d been infatuated with since I was sixteen, in love with for eight years, dating for six? It was pitiful, really.

I supposed I had Yara to thank. If it weren’t for her, I’d be walking down the aisle with this revolting, two-faced man. What a miserable life that would’ve been.

Quinn, clearly incensed, shot to her feet, all pretense of civility gone. "Whitley, this—this is exactly what’s wrong with you! Your temper is outrageous! Just look at Yara—so gentle, so well-mannered, always treating me with such respect. Every time she sees me, it’s ‘Auntie this, Auntie that’..."

Suppressing the bile rising in my throat, I glanced toward my loyal golden retriever ambling through the living room. Inspiration struck. "Buddy," I called out sweetly, "go get them."

"Woof! Woof!" Buddy needed no second command, launching toward them with a volley of barks that reverberated through the room like a battle cry.

"You—! You’re utterly—" Quinn’s face drained of all color, and she stumbled back, clinging to Yosef for support.

Yosef glared at me, his expression suddenly foreign, alien. "Whitley, you’ve gone too far! You’re not the woman I thought you were."

I smirked. Incredulous, I thought bitterly. Isn’t that exactly what I should be saying?

Their departure was less an exit, more a retreat—rushed, disheveled, a pair of thieves fleeing the crime scene. True to form, they even left the "garbage" I’d told them to take. I glanced at the discarded mess, my jaw tightening. Guess that’s something else I’ll have to deal with tomorrow.

The next morning, my bank account pinged with a transfer—two million dollars. My chest burned with righteous anger, but I wasn’t about to let my fury get in the way of practical matters. Who was I to turn down free money? Besides, I was dying to see Yara’s face when I delivered the final blow.

So I packed up the jewelry and accessories I’d painstakingly curated for what should have been my wedding and drove to the hospital.

Halfway there, my phone buzzed. My father. Henry Jackson.

"Yara’s sick," he barked as soon as I picked up, wasting no time. "And as her sister, you can’t even be bothered to stop by? You’re as heartless as your mother!"

The accusation rolled off me like rain on glass. "Want me to bring some firecrackers while I’m at it?" I asked dryly.

"Whitley! What nonsense are you spouting now?" he thundered, his voice crackling with fury.

"You know," I said, carefully measuring my tone, "to ward off bad energy. Scare away the illness. What else could I possibly mean?"

"..." For once, he fell silent.

I let a smile touch my lips, savoring the brief victory. "Might as well celebrate while we’re at it," I added lightly.

"You—you’re unbelievable, Whitley! Just like your—"

I didn’t give him the satisfaction of finishing the insult. My thumb hit the End Call button before he could utter another word. Imagining the impotent rage twisting his features, I laughed aloud, the sound startling even to me.

Last night, staring at the ceiling during yet another bout of insomnia, I couldn’t help wondering if Yara’s illness was karmic—retribution not for her sins, but for those of her parents. A grim sort of poetic justice. Finally, the heavens had seen fit to act.

When I reached her hospital room, my hand hovered by the door, ready to knock. Then I heard voices.

"Whitley must be thrilled," said Xyla, her tone thick with self-righteous disdain. "She’s hated Yara from the start, always lording over her younger siblings like some petty tyrant. Now that Yara’s got a terminal illness, she’s probably laughing herself to sleep every night."

Her voice cracked, dipping into a pitiful sob. "Why me? Why my family? Why not that vile girl, Whitley? Why couldn’t she be the one to... You’re cruel, God. So cruel."

My patience, already thin, snapped. Throwing the door open with a force that sent it banging against the wall, I stepped inside. Xyla was nestled in my father’s arms like the drama queen she was, and the tableau was practically oozing with performative grief.

Heads turned as one. The sudden intrusion hit the room like a thunderclap, and every face reflected a different shade of shock, hostility, or forced politeness.

Yosef broke the silence first. "Whit, you’re here," he said, his smile warm, solicitous, utterly false.

I ignored him, reaching into the bag slung over my shoulder and retrieving the lighter I’d tucked in earlier that morning. Out came the firecrackers next—small, but loud enough for the job.

Yosef’s face blanched. "Whitley, what are you doing?"

My voice was steady, unhurried. "Cleansing the air."

Henry, slow to grasp what was happening, finally caught on and jabbed a furious finger in my direction. "Whitley, don’t you dare—"

The first snap of firework drowned him out completely. Pop-pop-pop!

Yosef scrambled back, hands flying to shield his head. The others scattered like roaches when the lights come on, tripping over themselves in their haste to get away.

It was glorious.

Everyone in Jaxford City knew the funeral custom: scattering paper money and setting off firecrackers every few dozen feet to guide spirits on their journey while driving away ill fortune. A rural tradition, mostly—fireworks were illegal within city limits—but one I suspected everyone in this room would recognize.

Three sets of firecrackers later, the room was thick with smoke and deafening with chaos. Had I been less considerate of the other patients on the ward, I might have escalated further—maybe a lengthy chain of celebratory New Year’s fireworks to really send Yara off in style.

As it was, the residual gunpowder and acrid smell triggered the smoke detectors overhead. Within seconds, alarms blared, and the ceiling’s sprinkler system activated, drenching the room in a cold, relentless deluge.

Xyla shrieked, her voice cracking mid-scream. Yara, from her bed, wailed, "Mom! Mom!"

I stood just inside the doorway, sidestepping the spray with deliberate ease. Behind me, water pooled and rippled as it sought its way into the hall, where curious nurses and security guards gathered. The soaked and disheveled occupants of the room soon followed, slipping out one by one, sopping wet and humiliated.

A doctor stormed in soon after, livid. "Unbelievable! This is absurd! If firecrackers could cure disease, what use would we have for doctors? What would we need hospitals for? Blind superstition like this? This is precisely why people die avoidable deaths in this country!"

Xyla, soaked and seething, rounded on him, finger jabbing in my direction. "It wasn’t us—it was her! She’s the one! She did it on purpose! Doctor, you have to call the police, have her arrested! She was inciting chaos, disturbing public peace—"

The doctor, clearly uninterested in playing judge, waved her off. "What matters now is the patient’s recovery. We’ll deal with assigning blame later." He turned to his staff, barking orders. "Relocate the patient immediately. Ensure the new room is properly equipped."

Yara stood there, drenched and fragile in her hospital gown, held tightly in Yosef's arms. The sorrow etched across her face mirrored the weight of the room. The nurse quickly arranged for a new hospital room, and Yosef didn’t hesitate. Cradling Yara like a fallen bird, he disappeared inside.

Xyla hesitated for a moment, anger brimming in her darkened gaze. She shot me a look sharp enough to cut, lips parting as if to lash me with some fresh insult, but concern for Yara overruled her spite. With one last glare, she followed them into the room.

Henry, his face dripping with rain, ran the back of his hand across his forehead. He pointed at me, his voice dropping to a guttural snarl. "Whitley, you’ll pay for this. Just wait."

I stared back, impassive—a face carved from stone.

The goal of my visit had been achieved; there was no reason to linger. I turned for the door, already thinking of the fresh air outside. Then I stopped short, a sudden realization halting me. The jewelry. I’d meant to return it to those two deceitful parasites.

Suppressing a sigh, I stepped back into the room.

By now, Yara had changed into dry hospital clothes. She sat propped against the metal bars of the hospital bed, a flicker of something sharper glinting in her eyes as she noticed my return. Perhaps it was the presence of Yosef that kept her subdued tonight, but whatever edge she bore was carefully concealed beneath layers of practiced demureness.

"Whitley, what is it you want now?" Xyla’s sharp voice sliced through the sterile air as she emerged from the bathroom, her hand still clutching a damp towel.

Ignoring her completely, I walked toward Yara and Yosef. In my hands, the box of jewelry felt heavier than it ever had.

"Yara," I said evenly, offering her the box. "Congratulations. You're getting married—to the man of your dreams, no less. Your wish has come true. I suppose you can die happy now."

"Whitley!" Xyla exploded, her voice ricocheting around the room.

But I wasn't lying.

When Yara had turned eighteen, she’d made a wish: that if she couldn’t marry Yosef, she’d rather die. Ironic—or perhaps poetic—how those words clung to her fate like a prophecy.

Yet, despite the gall of my words, Yara didn’t erupt. Instead, she looked at me with tears glinting at the corners of her watery gaze. “Thank you, sis. Thank you for stepping aside and letting me have Sefie. I know you’re angry—you wouldn’t have done what you did otherwise. But…it’s my fault. I don’t blame you.”

Before she could finish her little speech, her first tear fell, rolling delicately down her pale cheek. The effect was pure melodrama, like some ghostly reincarnation of a Gothic heroine.

I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me. "Yara, when we were kids, your cruelty had a certain honesty to it. But this… Well. When did you learn to fake being virtuous? Is it because you're afraid your precious Sefie won’t love you if he catches a glimpse of your real face?"

"I didn’t understand things back then," she replied softly, head bowed, her voice trembling in just the right way. "You were always perfect, always so far ahead of me. I—what could I do except act out? Grab whatever scraps of attention I could? When you’ve spent your life under someone else’s roof, you wouldn’t understand that feeling…

The lengths you'd go just to feel seen."

My lips curled into a slow, incredulous smile. The sheer nerve of her performance left me almost breathless.

Since the day she’d walked through the Jackson family’s grand doors, Yara had lived like a princess, pampered and beloved. Meanwhile, I—the so-called rightful daughter of this household—had been reduced to a servant no better than a punching bag.

And now she wanted to stand here, weaving her pitiful tale, the victim in someone else’s house?

"You’ve outdone yourself," I murmured, shaking my head. "If there were an Oscar for best actress, you’d sweep it. Truly."

I didn’t bother untangling her lies. Let her wallow in her own delusions. Instead, I leaned against the bed railing, voice twisting with feigned sympathy. “You're right—it’s a pity, really. I mean, after all those years taking the hits for you, who’d have thought that the one lesson you’d teach me isn’t about suffering, but dying. You’re the expert there, no?”

Yosef’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Whitley, that’s enough."

Henry, ever eager to join the choir, barked in as well. "She’s your sister! She’s dying! Show some humility—or just wait—God will make sure you’re next!"

Turning to look at my so-called father, I raised a single brow, my tone icy. "Dear God, spare me your theatrics. But if you insist on cursing me with an early death, maybe you should pray a little harder for her. The moment she reaches the underworld, rest assured she won’t survive long without your protection."

“You—!”

I cut him off with silence, the satisfaction curling cold and tight within me. Without another word, I bent down and placed the ornate velvet box beside Yara. “Here. It’s yours. Your beloved paid the price for both of you.”

Yara’s eyes darted to Yosef. His face was a study in discomfort—an actor suddenly unsure of his lines.

Marshaling what composure I could, I tilted my head, feigning calm. "So, tell me. When’s the wedding?"

Surely, they’d wait. With her condition as it was, they couldn’t possibly move forward so soon. No sane person would entertain it.

Yara’s voice, soft as silk, proved me wrong. "On the date you'd picked. For your wedding," she said. "Only, of course…the bride will be me."

What?

The word formed like a single, molten flame inside my skull. My brow furrowed as understanding began to dawn. They weren’t just taking Yosef. They were stealing everything—from my dress to my jewelry, my flowers to my carefully-planned ceremony—every single detail I’d spent months perfecting.

Xyla, seeing my reaction, practically preened. "Well, given how much you’ve already organized, it would be a shame to waste all that effort. Invitations have been sent, everything planned to perfection. Why undo it all? Better to make use of what’s already there. Wouldn’t you agree?"

I didn’t answer her. My gaze slid to Yosef instead. Surely, he wouldn’t go along with such madness.

But there he stood, sheepish, an actor failing to summon conviction for his role. He took a tentative step forward, reaching as if to touch my arm. I shrugged him off instantly.

“Whitley…” His voice dropped to a low plea. “I’m sorry. I know how much this wedding meant to you—how much care you put into it—but that’s why. That’s exactly why we can’t let it go to waste. And Yara… She’s your sister. We’re family. You’re giving this to her because you love her, aren’t you?”

I couldn’t breathe. The sheer audacity of him clawed at my chest. My nails bit into my palms as I fought to suppress an urge to strike him, to rid myself of his pompous pitiful gaze with one sharp, decisive motion.

Instead, I smiled, swallowing the bile rising within me. "Is that how you see it? That I’m simply keeping it in the family? A farmhand watering her own field because it shan’t go unclaimed?"