Chapter 2

The words landed, and Tristram flinched as if they'd scalded him.

He tore his hand free and stepped back twice.

There was no emotion in those deep black eyes.

Only wariness.

Like watching a wild animal that had suddenly changed its line of attack.

At that moment, hurried footsteps came from the entryway.

"Sis! The housekeeper said you're smashing things again—please, calm down!"

The woman wore a cream knit dress, her long hair loose over her shoulders, and she looked ready to burst into tears the second she stepped inside.

Samantha Henson.

My dear little sister.

Also the one who, in my past life, paid off mountain bandits to push me off a cliff.

The orphan the Henson family took in, who now looked more like the Henson daughter than I did, the real one.

And me—I was the ungrateful lunatic who'd married into money and still didn't know her luck.

Samantha hurried in, her eyes going straight to Tristram.

She swept a pitying look over his rumpled shirt.

Then she saw the rosewood shards all over the floor and drew in a soft breath.

"Sis, it took him three years to make that screen. How could you bring yourself to smash it?"

"I know you think he's off in that workshop all day and never home, but he's allowed to have something he loves too."

"Doing this to him—think how much it hurts him."

She paused a beat, then lowered her gaze to my daughter in my arms.

Her face arranged itself into just the right amount of distress.

"And little Agnes—Sis, I understand disciplining her, but making her kneel on broken wood…"

"She barely talks as it is. Keep scaring her like this and what's going to become of her?"

Every line dressed up as concern.

Every line a knife going in.

Nailing it down that Tristram was a wastrel and I was the one suffering for it.

And clamping shut on the other point: that I abused my own child and didn't deserve to be her mother.

In my past life, every time I heard this speech, I felt like this sister was the only one who understood my pain.

And then I'd turn even more hysterical, screaming at Tristram.

But this time.

I finished pressing the bandage over my daughter's finger and set her down on the sofa.

The little girl curled into a ball, still shaking.

But she didn't shy away from me.

I stood up.

Brushed the splinters off my knees.

Turned to face Samantha.

"Sis? Don't look at me like that, I really was just worried about you…"

My stare pushed the strength right out of her voice.

She edged half a step toward Tristram without thinking.

Tristram frowned and turned his body away without a word.

His eyes were still fixed on me.

Waiting for me to lose it next.

I walked over.

Stopped right in front of Samantha.

Then raised my hand.

And brought it across her face, full force.

Hard enough to spin her half around.

She slammed into the entryway cabinet.

The vase rocked twice and nearly went over.

Half of Samantha's face swelled up, blood seeping from the corner of her mouth.

The living room went dead silent.

Everyone frozen in place.

Even those endlessly dead eyes of Tristram's showed plain shock.

"You hit me?!"

Samantha clutched her face, and the tears really did fall.

"Aria Henson, you're insane! I'm your sister!"

"Sister?"

I let out a cold laugh.

"First. My daughter is six and placed second in her whole grade. She's a genius."

"How she studies, how she tests, that's a Stephens family matter. Since when does an outsider with a different name get to point fingers here?"

"Second."

I turned my head and looked at Tristram.

He stood there, shirt cuffs rolled up.

The muscles of his forearms drawn taut, rosewood dust still lodged between his fingers.

"So my husband loves woodworking. What of it? He can carve a flower out of a plain block of wood—that's a skill."

"I like watching him plane wood, and I like the pine scent on him. Any of your business?"

I took another step closer and dropped my voice.

"Or is it that you care so much about what my husband does and doesn't do because you've got other ideas?"

Samantha's pupils shrank hard.

What flashed across her face in that instant wasn't hurt.

It was guilt.

"You were never like this before… you always couldn't stand him…"

"I was blind before. Today I got my sight back. Any objection?"

I pointed at the door.

"Get out!"

"From now on, set one foot in the Stephens house without my say-so, and I'll break your legs and drag you off to feed the dogs!"

Samantha scrambled up, disbelieving:

"You wouldn't dare!"

"I mean every word. Try me and see!"

She ran out with a hand over her face.

At the door she turned back and glared at me.

Her eyes brimming with a hatred as vast as it was venomous.