Day two, she "accidentally" tipped over a pot of soup at the dining table—trying to burn my best friend. Carmela coolly flipped the pot back, and Trisha ended up shrieking in pain with scalded hands.
Day three, she slipped her own diamond necklace under our pillows, then brought the whole family in for a dramatic "thief reveal."
Unfortunately for her, I played the surveillance footage showing her sneaking into our room at midnight.
She was forced to backpedal, tears brimming at the corner of her eyes, claiming she just wanted to "surprise us with a gift."
After that series of defeats, even her thick skin couldn't save her. She went quiet—but we both knew she was plotting something worse.
Sure enough, a month later at the class meeting of our elite academy, she struck.
With red-rimmed eyes and a trembling voice, she introduced us to the class:
"These are the sisters my parents adopted from an orphanage. Please take care of them."
Just one sentence—and she exposed us as adopted, not real daughters.
The room went still.
Then whispers spread like wildfire:
"What? The richest family just adopts girls like it's a hobby?"
"Poor Trisha, having to share her parents' love with two random people..."