Chapter 4

I waited for twenty minutes in the biting cold, my breath clouding in front of me. Then, just as I was about to give up, a black Lincoln Town Car, the kind used by car services, pulled up silently to the corner at the end of the street.

The back door opened, and my grandparents, no longer looking like tired retirees, briskly walked to the car and got in. The car pulled away smoothly, disappearing into the night. They didn' t even look back at the little bungalow they called home.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I walked back to the house, my legs feeling like lead. The spare key was exactly where they always told me it was-under a loose brick by the porch. My hand trembled as I unlocked the door.

The smell of industrial-grade cleaner hit me first. The house was spotless, but it was an impersonal, sterile clean. As I stepped into the living room, I heard voices from the kitchen.

Two women in cleaning uniforms were packing up their supplies.

"-and she said they' ll be back for the girl' s birthday in March," one of them was saying. "Can you believe it? Keeping up this whole charade for over twenty years."

The other woman snorted. "Rich people are crazy. All this, this entire house, just to trick their own daughter? And the old folks, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, playing dress-up. It' s like a TV show."

"They pay well, though," the first one conceded. "Just wish they' d give us a heads-up. We had to rush to get the place ready for their visit today."

I backed out of the house silently, my mind reeling. A charade. A TV show. My entire extended family, a cast of actors.

The contracts I' d found had an address listed for a corporation my father owned. It was a holding company, and its address was in the most exclusive gated community in the state: Emerald Hills.

I called a cab, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Emerald Hills, please."

The taxi driver gave me a strange look but didn' t say anything. Twenty minutes later, we were at a massive gate with a stone archway. A uniformed guard stepped out of a guardhouse.

I paid the driver and walked towards the gate. The address from the documents was for 14 Willow Creek Lane.

"Can I help you?" the guard asked, his tone immediately dismissive. He took in my cheap jeans and thin coat.

"I' m here to see the Reynolds family. At 14 Willow Creek Lane."

He looked at a list on his clipboard, then back at me. "You' re not on the list. Deliveries go to the service entrance around back."

"I' m not a delivery," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "I' m... family."

He laughed. A short, sharp sound of disbelief. "Right. Look, kid, I don' t know what you' re trying to pull, but you need to leave. Now. Before I call the police for trespassing."

Tears of humiliation stung my eyes. I was being thrown out of my own family' s home.

As I turned to leave, a cherry-red sports car roared up to the gate. The window glided down, and I saw him. The boy from the restaurant. Julian.

He glanced at me, a flicker of recognition in his eyes, quickly followed by annoyance. The guard immediately snapped to attention.

"Mr. Reynolds. Good evening, sir."

"What' s going on here, Bill?" Julian asked, not taking his eyes off me.

"This girl was trying to get in, sir. Said she was your family. I was just telling her to leave."

Julian let out a cold laugh. He got out of the car and walked towards me, circling me like a predator.

"So, you found us," he said, his voice laced with a mocking cruelty. "I have to admit, I' m impressed."

He stopped in front of me, his handsome face twisted into a sneer.

"You' re Olivia, right?"

I couldn' t speak. I just stared at him.

"The secret sister," he continued, enjoying my shock. "The one they keep in the crappy apartment. The one who' s supposed to be poor. Let me guess, you finally figured it out?"

My mind was screaming. He knew. He knew all along.

"Why?" The word was a choked whisper.

He shrugged, a careless gesture that spoke volumes. "Mom and Dad are superstitious. They saw some psychic, some 'master,' when I was born. He told them you were born under a bad star. That you' d be a curse on me, that you' d steal my fortune and my luck."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"So, they came up with a plan. They would raise you 'poor.' A 'poor-schooling,' they called it. Keep you away from the family, from the money, from me. That way, your bad luck couldn' t touch me. And you' d never be smart enough or ambitious enough to compete with me for the inheritance."

He stepped back, a triumphant smirk on his face. "Looks like their plan had a few holes in it."