Chapter 1: Homecoming and High Stakes

Coming back to the Carter mansion, with their fake-sweet daughter and my oblivious little brother, I knew it was time for my real parents to get a wake-up call. "Tell me, have you ever heard that when kids can't get along, it's because the parents dropped the ball?"

Yeah, I'm not here to join this family. I'm here to set things straight.

A subtle hush fell across the entryway, the Carter family's designer light fixtures casting muted halos on their shocked faces. There was something almost comical about the way their jaws dropped, as if I’d spoken a forbidden spell at Thanksgiving dinner. The only thing missing was someone dropping a turkey leg. The silence was heavy, thick as the humidity after a Midwest summer rain.

As soon as I said that, every member of the Carter family froze for a second.

You could practically hear the tick of the grandfather clock echo through the high-ceilinged foyer. Mrs. Carter’s manicured hand hovered midair, her mouth open as if she’d meant to say something but forgot the words. Jason—my supposedly blood-related brother—gaped at me, his expression caught between confusion and admiration, like he’d just witnessed someone pop a wheelie at a traffic stop.

But I didn't stick around on the topic. Instead, I slipped my water bottle back into my canvas tote and asked, "So, which room is mine?"

My voice cut the tension like a knife through birthday cake, casual and matter-of-fact. I could feel the gears turning behind their stunned eyes, processing my total lack of reverence. The Carter parents, just snapping out of their shock and about to say something, instinctively glanced up toward the second floor when I asked.

I picked up my suitcase and headed upstairs without waiting for an answer.

The suitcase wheels thunk-thunked on each step, a steady metronome to the awkward shuffle of the Carters as they scrambled to keep up. My palm was a little sweaty on the cheap plastic handle—nerves, maybe, or maybe just the echo of too many one-bedroom apartments and nowhere-else-to-go foster homes. The Carters, still stunned, scrambled to follow me.

They led me to the doors of two rooms and said, "Take a look—see which one you like."

There was a moment where Mrs. Carter smoothed her blouse and tried to recover her best hosting smile, but her voice came out a little too brittle, like she was reading off a script she didn't quite believe in. I took in the scene: a hallway carpet so plush it nearly ate my shoes, doors with brass handles gleaming under the recessed lights. It was the kind of hallway I’d only seen in HGTV shows Grandma used to watch, where every detail screamed money I’d never had.

I frowned, my tone serious. "Is this supposed to be some kind of high EQ test?" I’d seen enough foster homes to know when adults were testing you, not welcoming you.

The question hung in the air. Jason blinked, his confusion deepening. The parents' postures stiffened. "Huh?" The Carter family looked genuinely confused.

I had to point out the obvious: one room was a lavish suite with fancy décor, a walk-in closet, and a little study; the other was a cramped guest room, decorated like a model home, barely bigger than the suite's closet.

I spoke my thoughts honestly.

There was no way to miss the difference. Even the air in the bigger room seemed fresher, scented with vanilla from some designer candle. The smaller room had the untouched feeling of a place staged for a realtor's brochure, not for a kid to actually live in. Normally, with such a stark difference between the two, there shouldn't even be a question—anyone with eyes could see which was better.

"But it's also clear that this suite wasn't prepared especially for me."

My voice was cool as I stepped inside, the soles of my sneakers squeaking softly on the hardwood. I walked in, my gaze sweeping over the clear signs of someone living there, finally settling on the vanity by the window.

A few stray hair ties, a tube of half-used lip balm, a battered paperback romance—little clues scattered like breadcrumbs. The sunlight poured in, catching on a sticker that read “You belong with me” curling at the edges. "Someone lived here before, and that someone was a teenage girl."

I sighed, then looked at Rachel—her eyes still red—and spoke frankly to the Carter parents.

There was a tremor in my voice, but I let it settle, crossing my arms. So, this must have been Rachel's room before.

Since that's the case, your behavior now confuses me.

If you were just giving me her room, you could've cleared out all her things, so I could move in without any baggage.

But instead, you deliberately set up another, obviously worse room and made me choose for myself.

I can only assume this is your high EQ test for me, hoping that after seeing through it all, I'll choose the worse room on my own.

I let the words hang between us, watching their faces for a flicker of guilt or surprise. "Isn't that right?"

At this, the Carters' expressions soured.

Even my younger brother, Jason—who'd been picking fights with me since I got back—looked at our parents with a not-so-bright expression and asked, "Mom, Dad, is that really it?"

His voice was sharper than usual, like he was waking up from a fog. "Don't talk nonsense, of course not," Mr. and Mrs. Carter said, faces tinged with embarrassment.

Rachel hurried to explain: "It's not like that. I wanted to give the room to my sister myself."

Her voice quivered. Her fingers twisted the cuff of her hoodie, knuckles white. I caught the way her eyes darted to her parents, searching for backup.