Chapter 2: The Three-Thousand-Dollar Handbag
I didn't remember unlocking my bedroom door.
One second, I was pulling at the handle with shaking hands. The next, I was running down the stairs barefoot, my heart pounding so hard I could barely hear myself breathe.
The house was dark except for the kitchen light.
A strip of ivory fabric lay halfway down the staircase.
I stopped.
The material was unmistakable.
My mother's satin.
I picked it up with numb fingers.
There was a jagged cut through the edge, and one of the tiny pearls was still attached to a loose thread.
"No," I whispered.
Then I ran.
The living room was flooded with light.
Samantha stood beside the coffee table wearing silk pajamas and diamond earrings. Her expensive handbag rested on the sofa, its gold clasp shining beneath the chandelier.
The ivory dress lay across the rug.
The skirt had been cut into long, uneven strips.
The delicate sleeves were gone.
The pearl neckline had been sliced straight through the middle.
And Samantha held the kitchen shears like a trophy.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
I had imagined cruelty before. I had endured insults, comparisons, and the constant suggestion that my grief was an inconvenience.
But I had never imagined standing in the same room as someone who had deliberately destroyed a promise my dying mother had made to me.
Samantha looked up.
"Oh. You're awake.""
I stared at the ruined dress.
"What did you do?""
She examined the scissors.
"Relax. It's just fabric.""
I walked toward her.
"That was my mother's dress.""
"Technically, Margaret made it.""
The words hit harder than the scissors.
"She recreated it from my mother's design.""
"Exactly. So you can get another one.""
"She spent months making it!""
"Then maybe she should've made something less ugly.""
I lunged toward the dress, but Samantha stepped on the skirt.
"Move your foot.""
"Ask nicely.""
"Samantha, move your foot!""
She pressed her heel harder against the satin.
"Why? Is it going to cry if I touch it?""
I looked at her face and saw no remorse.
Not even a flicker.
Just satisfaction.
I reached down to pull the fabric free.
She lifted the scissors.
"Careful. I haven't finished.""
My hands froze.
"You've already destroyed it.""
"Not all of it.""
She snipped through another section of the skirt.
The sound ripped through the room.
I screamed.
"STOP!""
Samantha laughed.
"Maybe now your father can finally stop pretending you're the only daughter who matters.""
I stared at her.
"This has nothing to do with Dad.""
"Everything has to do with Dad!"" she shouted.
She threw the scissors onto the coffee table, where they landed beside a crystal bowl.
"Every birthday, every holiday, every stupid family dinner. There's always something about Elena. A photograph, a story, some little tradition he refuses to let go of.""
"She's my mother.""
"And my mother is his wife!""
"Nobody is stopping him from loving Victoria.""
"Don't pretend you care about my mother.""
I took a shaky breath.
"Then stop punishing me for the fact that mine died.""
For the first time, Samantha's expression faltered.
Only for a second.
Then she grabbed her handbag and held it against her side.
"You always do that," she said.
"You make everything sound so noble. You think being sad makes you better than everyone else.""
"I never said that.""
"You don't have to.""
She pointed at the destroyed gown.
"Look at you. Crying over a dress while people are trying to build an actual life.""
I glanced at the handbag.
It was a limited-edition designer piece she had been bragging about for weeks. She had told everyone at dinner that it cost three thousand dollars, and she'd spent half the evening explaining how difficult it was to get.
"Why is your bag down here?"" I asked.
She blinked.
"What?""
"Your bag. Why did you bring it downstairs?""
"Because I wanted it downstairs.""
I looked at the handbag, then at the ruined dress.
Something about the scene felt deliberate.
The scissors.
The bag.
The way she had been waiting for me to wake up.
"You planned this," I whispered.
Samantha rolled her eyes.
"Oh, don't flatter yourself.""
"You came into my room. You threatened me. You locked me in, didn't you?""
She tilted her head.
"Prove it.""
I turned toward the staircase.
"Where's Dad?""
"Probably sleeping like a normal person.""
I reached for my phone.
Samantha's smile widened.
"Go ahead, Emily. Call him.""
I dialed Dad's number.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Samantha leaned against the sofa and crossed her arms.
"Poor Emily. Daddy isn't answering.""
I felt tears spill down my cheeks.
"Why would you do this?""
She looked down at the dress.
Then she bent, picked up one of the torn sleeves, and held it between two fingers.
"Because I'm tired of living in a house where a dead woman gets more respect than the people who are still alive.""
She dropped the sleeve onto the rug.
I wanted to slap her.
I wanted to scream until the neighbors came running.
Instead, I crouched beside the dress and tried to gather the pieces before she stepped on them again.
The satin was cold beneath my fingers.
A pearl rolled under the coffee table.
I reached for it.
Samantha kicked it away.
"Oops.""
I looked up.
Something inside me went still.
"Don't touch another piece.""
She laughed.
"Or what?""
I stood.
"Or you'll have to explain this to Dad.""
Her face hardened.
"You're obsessed with him choosing you.""
"No. I'm asking him to care that you've destroyed something important to me.""
"He cares about me, too.""
"Then act like someone who deserves it.""
The slap came so quickly that I barely saw her hand move.
My cheek burned.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the ticking clock above the fireplace.
Samantha stared at me, breathing hard.
Then she looked at her own hand as if she couldn't believe she'd done it.
But instead of apologizing, she straightened her pajamas.
"Don't push me.""
I touched my cheek.
"You hit me.""
"You provoked me.""
I backed away.
She snatched up her handbag.
"And before you start crying to Dad, remember something. Victoria has been in this family a lot longer than your little graduation dress.""
"She isn't the one who cut it.""
Samantha stepped closer.
"You'd be surprised what people will do when they're tired of your nonsense.""
Then she turned and walked toward the stairs.
I watched her go.
At the first step, she stopped.
"Oh, and Emily?""
I didn't answer.
"Don't wear white tomorrow. It makes you look like you're trying too hard to be your mother.""
She disappeared upstairs.
I stood alone in the living room until the tears blurred everything.
Then I sank to the floor.
I gathered every piece of satin I could find. I collected the pearls, one by one, and placed them in the small cardboard box Margaret had used to package the dress.
I even picked up the thread.
I didn't know why.
Perhaps some foolish part of me believed that if I saved enough pieces, I could somehow put everything back together.
At 2:06 a.m., Dad finally came downstairs.
He was wearing his old gray T-shirt and pajama pants, his hair flattened on one side from sleep.
He stopped at the doorway.
"Emily?""
I looked up.
His gaze moved from my swollen cheek to the shredded gown spread across the rug.
Then he saw the shears.
"What happened?""
I tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
Dad crossed the room and knelt beside me.
"Sweetheart, look at me.""
I lifted my face.
He touched my cheek with trembling fingers.
"Who did this?""
I swallowed.
"Samantha.""
His expression changed.
"What?""
"She cut the dress. She came downstairs and destroyed it while I was locked in my room.""
Dad looked toward the staircase.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he stood.
"Stay here.""
"Dad—"
"Stay here, Emily.""
He walked toward the stairs.
I heard his footsteps cross the landing.
Then his voice rang through the house.
"Samantha! Get downstairs. Now!""
A door slammed upstairs.
Victoria appeared at the top of the staircase, wrapped in a silk robe.
"Daniel, what on earth is going on?""
Dad pointed toward the living room.
"Come and look.""
Victoria descended slowly.
When she saw the dress, she covered her mouth.
"Oh, my God.""
I looked at her, hoping—desperately hoping—that she would finally understand.
"She did it while I was locked upstairs.""
Victoria's eyes moved toward Samantha's handbag on the sofa.
Then toward the scissors.
Then toward me.
"Are you sure this wasn't an accident?""
I stared at her.
"An accident?""
"Perhaps you two were arguing, and—"
"She cut it into pieces!""
Victoria flinched at my voice.
Dad turned toward her.
"Victoria, stop.""
"But Daniel, we don't know—"
"I said stop.""
His voice was quiet.
That was what made it frightening.
A moment later, Samantha appeared on the staircase.
She had changed into a robe, and her hair was neatly brushed. She looked more annoyed than frightened.
"What's all this yelling about?""
Dad held up the torn sleeve.
"Did you destroy Emily's dress?""
Samantha glanced at the fabric.
Then she looked directly at me.
"She told you I did?""
"Answer the question.""
She lifted her chin.
"Yes.""
Victoria gasped.
"Samantha!""
"What?"" Samantha snapped.
"I'm not going to lie about it.""
Dad's hand tightened around the satin.
"Why?""
"Because I'm tired of being treated like a second-class daughter in my own home.""
"This was Emily's graduation dress.""
"And I suppose that makes her more important than me?""
"No.""
"Then why does she get everything?""
Dad stared at her.
"What exactly do you think she gets?""
Samantha threw her hands into the air.
"Your attention! Your money! Your sympathy! Everything revolves around Elena, and Emily gets to benefit from it forever.""
Dad looked down at the shredded gown.
Then he looked at the scissors.
When he spoke again, his voice was colder than I had ever heard it.
"Go upstairs and pack a bag.""
Samantha went completely still.
"What?""
"You heard me.""
Her eyes widened.
"You're kicking me out?""
"I'm telling you to leave this house tonight.""
Victoria rushed forward.
"Daniel, you can't be serious!""
Dad didn't look at her.
"Your daughter has just admitted to destroying something irreplaceable and hitting Emily. I will not pretend this is acceptable.""
Samantha's face twisted.
"You're choosing her over me!""
"I'm choosing not to excuse what you've done.""
"After everything I've been through?""
Dad's jaw tightened.
"What you've been through does not give you permission to hurt someone else.""
Samantha looked at me.
Her eyes were bright with fury.
Then she gave a bitter laugh.
"Fine. You want to know what really happened? Ask your precious Emily what she did to me first.""
My stomach dropped.
"What are you talking about?""
Samantha reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone.
She tapped the screen twice.
Then she held it up toward Dad.
"Go ahead," she said.
"Tell her, Emily. Tell Dad what you did.""
She turned the screen around.
A photograph filled it.
It showed me standing outside the Westbridge administration building, holding a thick envelope.
Beside me stood a man I had never seen before.
May you like
And beneath the photograph was a message that made my blood run cold.
Your daughter has been hiding something from you.
