The Monteras had raised Patricia for over two decades. She was the “golden child.” The media darling. Groomed to take over the company. Trained in etiquette, strategy, public relations. She fit in their world so seamlessly that no one—not even her—wanted to admit the truth.
They welcomed me in, yes. But not as a daughter. As a charity case. A pitiful mistake they were now obligated to clean up.
They still treated Patricia as their daughter. Still celebrated her every move, while I was tucked away like a faded memory they couldn’t throw out but couldn’t look at, either.
I was the real daughter. But never their choice.
Even Denver had chosen her. At first, I convinced myself it was just admiration, proximity, the fact that they knew each other before me. But then I overheard him.
It was at the back of the garden during a gala, just a few days after I was discharged from the hospital. He was speaking to someone I couldn’t see, his voice hushed but clear.
“I should’ve married Patricia. God, I regret marrying Alicia. She’s weak. Ordinary. No spark. Patricia would’ve made sense—imagine the power couple we could’ve been.”
I froze behind the hedge, my hand clamped over my mouth.