Her voice cracked on the final word.
And suddenly I realized this was more than entitlement.
She hated me.
Not casually.
Not the ordinary resentment sisters sometimes carry.
There was something old and deeply rooted in her expression.
Something I had failed to see because I’d spent so much time fixing her problems that I never noticed she blamed me for having fewer of my own.
“I don’t think I’m better than you,” I said quietly.
“Yes, you do.”
“No. I think you’re asking a woman who was cut open yesterday to fund an eighty-thousand-dollar birthday party.”
“Stop saying it like that!”
“How else should I say it?”
She moved so fast that I barely registered what was happening.
Brielle lunged toward the bed and grabbed my forearm.
Pain shot through me as I twisted away.
“Don’t touch me!”
Clara woke screaming.
Panic tore through me.
