Chapter 2

"They what?" I stared at my mother, disbelief warring with a hot surge of anger. "The application... it was sabotaged. Didn't you see what Brittany and Liam did?"

My mother sighed, her gaze shifting away from me toward the living room where her new husband, Brittany's father, was watching TV. "Chloe, Brittany explained everything. It was a silly social media game that got a little out of hand. She feels terrible about it. Can't you just let it go for the sake of peace in this house?"

"Peace?" The word felt like a lie. "They ruined my one chance! This wasn't a game, Mom. They did it on purpose."

"Don't be so dramatic," she said, her tone becoming sharp. "There will be other schools, other chances. Your step-sister is very popular, Chloe. It's important for her to keep her followers engaged. You should try to be more understanding."

I felt a cold defiance settle in my chest. Understanding? No. I was done understanding. "Fine," I said, my voice low and steady. "I don't need their help. I don't need Ashton. I'll find my own way. I'll find new partners, people who actually respect me."

My declaration hung in the air, but my mother just shook her head as if I were a child throwing a tantrum.

Later that day, Liam caught me in the hallway, his face a mask of fake sincerity. "Chloe, hey. I'm so sorry about yesterday. Brittany and I, we were talking. We still want to do the summer food truck festival with you. Just like we planned. We can use the prize money to start our own place. It'll be even better than some fancy school."

He was trying to dangle our old dream in front of me like a cheap toy, a deceptive promise to keep me quiet, to keep me in my place. His words were smooth, but his eyes darted around, unable to meet mine. He was manipulating me, and he wasn't even good at it.

I couldn't help but remember the time his own father had kicked him out after a huge fight. He' d shown up on my doorstep at midnight, with nowhere to go. I had snuck him into my room, shared my food with him, and convinced my dad to talk to his, smoothing things over. I had protected him. And this was how he repaid me. The memory was a bitter pill, highlighting the depth of his betrayal.

The next week, the planning for the food truck festival began. My mom insisted I participate, "to show there are no hard feelings." I submitted a detailed proposal for our menu, centering it around my father's recipes, with a modern twist. I spent two days perfecting it, outlining every ingredient, every step, every cost.

At the "team meeting" in our living room, I laid it out on the coffee table. Brittany glanced at it for a second before pushing it aside. "That's cute, Chloe. Really. But I think we should go with something more... trendy." She pulled out her phone and showed us a picture of a rainbow-colored grilled cheese. "This is what's going viral right now. It's all about the aesthetic. People will line up for this."

Liam nodded eagerly. "She's right, Chloe. The visuals are what matter for social media."

My carefully planned menu, my heart and soul on paper, was dismissed for a cheap gimmick. My contribution was ignored, replaced by Brittany's shallow preference for style over substance. I felt invisible, my voice completely erased.

The day of the festival, our truck was a success. A long line of people snaked from our window, all eager to post pictures of their colorful, mediocre sandwiches. A local food critic, a well-known blogger, came by. He took a bite of the grilled cheese and looked unimpressed. Then he noticed the small batch of rosemary garlic chicken sliders I had made on the side, mostly for myself.

"What are these?" he asked, pointing.

"Oh, just something extra," Brittany said dismissively.

He asked to try one. I watched as his expression changed from skepticism to genuine delight. "This... this is incredible," he said, his voice full of surprise. "The balance of flavors, the technique... this is real cooking. Who made this?"

Before I could speak, Brittany jumped in, beaming. "I did! It's an old family recipe I've been working on." She took all the credit, right in front of me, without a flicker of shame. The injustice of it all was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest.

I had to stand there, forced to smile and nod as the critic praised her for my work. I had to watch her soak up the adoration for something she hadn't even touched. The anger was a hot, silent scream trapped inside me, while on the outside, I was just the quiet step-sister, the helper, forced to endure her false victory and my own unacknowledged contribution.