Chapter 2
Emma's POV
I took a deep breath and walked down the stairs.
As soon as I appeared, the conversation between the Morrison couple and their lawyer died.
They turned toward me with expressions I now recognized—calculated warmth masquerading as parental love, like actors who'd rehearsed this scene a hundred times.
"My baby!" James Morrison's voice broke—a practiced crack that might have fooled me once.
But I watched his hands shake as he reached for me, and I knew it wasn't emotion. It was fear. Fear that I might not play along with this happy reunion charade. "Fifteen years! Fifteen fucking years, and daddy thought about you every single day!"
'Daddy?' The word hit me like a slap.
In my previous life, it had taken me months to work up the courage to call him that, and even then, it had felt like swallowing glass.
Catherine dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief—Hermès, naturally—but her tears appeared right on cue. "Emma, sweetie, we searched everywhere for you. Thank God that DNA test finally brought you home."
I let James pull me into his awkward embrace, feeling how his whole body tensed when I didn't immediately dissolve into grateful sobs.
"Thank you for finding me, Mr. Morrison." My voice came out steady, deliberately formal, like I was thanking a stranger for directions.
The effect was immediate and beautiful.
"Call us Mom and Dad, honey," Catherine said, and I could hear the confusion creeping into her voice. "We're family."
'Family.' Once upon a time, that word would have made my chest ache with desperate longing. Now it just sounded like a lie wrapped in pretty paper.
"I need some time to adjust," I replied, watching their faces fall in real time.
Before anyone could respond, the sound of a car door slamming outside cut through the tension.
Yvette Morrison swept through the front door. Glossy brown hair falling in perfect waves, Sacred Heart Prep uniform tailored to fit her perfectly, an Hermès backpack slung casually over her shoulder. She looked like she'd stepped straight out of a teen magazine.
"Emma!" Her voice pitched with just the right amount of breathless excitement, but I caught the cold calculation flickering behind her eyes. "Oh my God, I came straight from school! I couldn't wait to meet you!"
She rushed toward me with arms outstretched, and for a split second, her mask slipped. I saw the real Yvette—cold, calculating, already measuring me for a coffin.
"I've always prayed for a sister!" she gushed, pulling me into what looked like a warm embrace.
But as she pressed close, her lips barely moved against my ear: "Welcome home, 'dear sister'. I do hope you'll remember your place here."
The threat was wrapped in silk, but it was still a threat.
I pulled back with a smile that could have cut glass. "You're quite the actress, Yvette. Have you considered drama club?"
Her grip on my shoulders tightened for just a moment—nails digging in—before she released me, that perfect smile never wavering.
"Come on!" Catherine clapped her hands together. "Let's show Emma around so she can choose her room!"
We headed upstairs, past family portraits that told their own story. Three children smiled down from expensive frames—Tyler, Yvette, and some random cousin they'd used to fill the gap where I should have been.
The hallway on the third floor stretched out before us, wide and expensively decorated, with doors leading to bedrooms that got progressively smaller toward the end.
"This one has the best view," Catherine said, throwing open the door to the largest room. "It's bright, spacious, and look—it even has a balcony!"
I stepped inside and my breath caught. There, propped casually against the window seat, was a vintage Martin guitar. Beautiful, expensive, and placed exactly where the afternoon light would make it gleam.
'Clever, Yvette. Very fucking clever.'
"This is Yvette's room, isn't it?" I asked, running my fingers along the guitar's polished surface.
"Well, yes, but if you like it..." Yvette stepped forward, her voice dripping with false generosity. "I'd be happy to move out! I'd do anything for my sister!"
The memory slammed into me—Tyler's fingers twisted in my hair, the burn of tears I'd tried so hard not to shed, the sound of my own voice begging people who would never see me as family.
'"Get the fuck out of my sister's room!"' Tyler had snarled, his fist tangled in my hair. '"I don't have a sister with ambitions this fucking big. Yvette's my only sister."'
Mom and Dad had stood in the doorway, making half-hearted protests while essentially agreeing that poor Yvette was being displaced.
I'd ended up in the tiny guest room, humiliated and heartbroken.
Not this fucking time.
I turned away from the guitar and walked to the end of the hallway, opening the door to the smallest room.
"I want this one."
The silence was so complete I could hear Catherine's jewelry clinking.
"Sweetheart," James's voice was carefully controlled, "that's just a guest room. It's too small. You should have something better..."
"This is perfect." I stepped inside, looking out the small window at the Silicon Valley hills. "I'm used to small spaces. They feel safer."
The relief that washed over Catherine and James's faces was almost comical. They practically deflated with it.
But Yvette? Yvette looked like someone had just rewritten all the rules.
"But Emma," she pressed, genuine confusion cracking her perfect facade, "don't you like my room? That guitar is really valuable. It's a 1954 Martin D-28..."
'I know exactly what it is, you manipulative little bitch.'
"I'm sure it is," I said pleasantly. "But I prefer quiet spaces. This will do nicely."
As the adults headed back downstairs, chattering about dinner plans, Yvette lingered in my doorway.
"I don't understand you." For the first time, her mask slipped completely. She looked genuinely rattled.
"You don't need to," I replied, already planning where I'd put my laptop. "We'll get along fine as long as you remember that I'm not playing the same games anymore."
By ten PM, I'd unpacked my few belongings and settled into my new space. It was small, yes, but it was mine.
Through the thin walls, I could hear Yvette in her room, and unless I was mistaken, she was throwing things.
'Good. Stay confused, princess.'
I opened my laptop and started typing:
Emma Morrison's New Life Plan😈:
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Graduate high school early (fuck their timeline)
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MIT Computer Science - full scholarship (fuck their money)
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Start my own tech company (fuck their approval)
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Never depend on anyone for anything (fuck this family)
Voices drifted from the hallway—Catherine and James, thinking they were whispering quietly enough.
"She's more... controlled than we expected," Catherine murmured.
"Maybe that's better," James replied. "At least she won't be trouble."
I smiled in the darkness, closing my laptop with a soft click.
'Oh, James. You have no fucking idea what kind of trouble I'm going to be.'